THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 


LIBRARY 

808.5 
L65 


T 


/ 


4 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/youngspeakerslibOOIind 


REMOTE  STORAGE 


S 


SIOBmi  JO  URHtMH 
3H1  JO 


CHRISTMAS  MORNING. 


The  Young  Speakers'  Library 

•  •  •  •  FOR  •  ,  •  • 

Home,  School,  Church,  and  Clubs, 

CONTAINING 

Stories,  Recitations,  Dramas,  Atft>  Games. 


EDITED  BY 

Neffie  Palmer  Lindsey. 


BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED. 


W.  W.  HOUSTON  &  CO., 

PUBLISHERS, 

PHILADELPHIA,  PA. 


COPYRIGHT,  189a 


iHtRoDuctioH 


IT  IS  with  much  pleasure  that  we  place  "The  Young  Speakers' 
Library  m  before  the  public,  feeling  certain  it  is  the  most  charm- 
ing and  useful  book  of  its  kind  ever  placed  before  boys  and  girls 
for  home  and  school  use. 

Good  words  have  come  from  parents  and  teachers  throughout  the 
land,  thus  convincing  us  that  all  our  books  have  been  fully  appreciated,  and 
that  the  pleasures  and  benefits  derived  therefrom  can  not  be  estimated;  so  it 
is  with  a  feeling  of  mingled  pleasure  and  satisfaction  that  we  place  before 
you  our  latest  Speaker,  believing  your  best  expectations  will  be  realized  in 
the  number  of  choice  selections  which  the  book  contains,  its  elocutionary 
advantages,  its  moral  tone,  its  original  stories,  and  its  charming  novelty. 

The  compiler  has  had  years  of  experience  in  the  school -room,  and  it 
goes  without  saying  that  he  is  by  this  time  familiar  with  the  hearts  of  the 
youth,  knows  their  longings  and  desires,  their  likes  and  dislikes.  He  realizes, 
that  something  good,  useful,  and  appropriate  is  their  constant  demand,  hence 
in  "The  Speakers'  Library/'  he  has  erdeavored  to  combine  the  grave 
and  gay,  the  real  and  ideal,  so  as  to  relieve  the  tedium  of  every-day  schooE 
life,  and  yet  stimulate  the  thoughts  to  press  onward  and  upward  in  their 
course  of  action. 

Trusting  the  volume  will  prove  a  friend  indeed,  both  at  home  am!  at 
school,  we  submit  it  to  your  generous  patronage. 

THE  PUBLISHERS. 


657573 


MOTTO: 


Punctuality  is  the  foundation  of  confidence, 
and  confidence  the  "soul  of  credit." 


:;.IT  IS  A  GOOD  OLD  SAYING... 


....  THAT .... 

"LOVE  LIGHTENS  L/\BO&." 


We're  happy,  happy  all  day  long, 

Each  busy  as  a  bee 
With  study,  exercise,  and  song, 

As  anyone  can  see. 


io  GOOD  BUSINESS  HABITS. 

GOOD  BUSINESS  HABITS. 

1.  Be  strict  in  keeping  engagements. 

2.  Do  nothing  carelessly,  or  in  a  hurry. 

3.  Employ  nobody  to  do  what  you  can  easily  do  yourself. 

4.  Leave  nothing  undone  that,  ought  to  be  done,  and  which  cir- 
cumstances permit. 

5.  Keep  your  designs  and  business  from  others,  yet  be  candid 
with  all. 

6.  Be  prompt  and  decisive  with  customers,  and  do  not  over-trade. 

7.  Prefer  short  credit  to  long,  cash  to  credit,  either  in  buying  or 
selling,  and  small  profits  with  little  risk,  to  the  chance  of  better  gains 
with  more  hazards. 

8.  Be  clear  and  explicit  in  bargains. 

9.  Leave  nothing  of  consequence  to  memory  which  can  be  com- 
mitted to  writing. 

10.  Keep  copies  of  all  important  letters,  etc. 

11.  Never  suffer  your  desk  to  be  confused  by  papers  lying  upon  it. 

12.  Keep  everything  in  its  proper  place. 

1?.  In  business  hours,  attend  only  to  business  matters. 

14.  Confine  social  calls  to  the  social  circle. 

1?.  State  your  business  in  few  words,  without  loss  of  time. 

16.  A  mean  act  soon  recoils,  and  a  man  of  honor  will  be  esteemed. 

17.  Treat  a!1,  with  respect,  confide  in  few,  wrong  no  man. 

18.  Never  be  afraid  to  say  No,  and  always  be  prompt  to  acknowl- 
edge and  rectify  a  wrong. 

19.  Leave  nothing  for  to-morrow  that  should  be  done  to-day. 

20.  Because  a  friend  is  polite,  do  not  think  his  time  is  valueless. 

21.  Have  a  place  for  everything,  and  everything  in  its  place. 

22.  To  preserve  long  friendship,  keep  a  short  credit. 
2?.  The  way  to  get  credit  is  to  be  punctual. 

24.  Settle  often;  have  short  accounts. 

2?.  Trust  no  man's  appearance;  it  is  often  deceptive. 

26.  Rogues  generally  dress  well. 


INDEX    TO  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Introduction,      .........  4     ....       .  7 

Good  Business  Habits,      ............  10 

Right,  Not  Might,  Rules  the  World,   15 

What  Willie  Said,           ..........       ...  16 

Trotty  and  Dotty,   17 

A  New  Time-Table,  .18 

Children  of  the  Week,                                                                                .       .  18 

The  Months,   iS 

Days  of  the  Week,          ......        ......  19 

Facts  for  Little  Folks,     ............  19 

School  Time,   19 

A  Gentle  Man,   20 

The  Dunce's  Bench,        .       .       .       .       .        .       .       .       .        .       .       .  21 

Twenty  Little  School-Mates,   22 

How  Columbus  Found  America,     .        .........  23 

Trust  Your  Mother,        ............  24 

Which  Is  the  Best?   25 

The  Clerk  of  the  Weather,   26 

Vacation  Song,        .............  28 

The  Pearl  of  Great  Price,      ...........  29 

A  Song  of  the  Season,    ............  30 

A  Boy's  Belief,   33 

A  Nation's  Strength,       ............  34 

The  Orphan  Turkey,      .............  35 

A  Christmas  Carol,   35 

The  Wind,  ■•   36 

The  Country  School-House,    ...........  37 

The  Water-Mill,   39 

Astronomy  Made  Easy,           ...........  40 

Strauss'  Boedry,       .       •       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  41 

The  Axis,         ,       .       .       .  '   42 

Not  Ready  for  School,   43 

The  First  Pocket,    .   45 

Number,           .       .   46 

A  Little  Child's  Fancy,           .   46 

Lesson  in  Arithmetic,       ............  48 

A  Little  Traveler,    .............  50 

The  Children's  King,   51 

The  Boys  We  Need,   52 

The  Proper  Time,   .............  52 

The  First  Rubber  Boots,        .   55 

An  Alphabet  of  Rivers,    56 

His  Profession,         .............  57 

The  Child's  Centennial,           .'   58 

Letting  the  Old  Cat  Die,   61 

A  Story  for  Boys,   64 

Vacation,           ..............  67 

The  Children's  Hour,   68 

Father  at  Play,  ••7° 

True  Love,       .       .       .       .       .<•       .       •       .       .       .       .       .       •  71 

The  Rabbit  on  the  Wall,   71 

11 


12  INDEX  TO  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

"Little  Children  Love  One  Another,"  73 
Never  Out  of  Sight,        ............  74 

Little  Things,  75 

Perseverance,     ..............  76 

Pussy's  Class,    ..............  76 

Seven  Times  One,    .   .78 

Good-Night,   79 

Two  Little  Girls,     .............  80 

Be  Active,  81 

The  Children's  Bed-Time,       .        .       .       .       ,       .       .       .       .       .       .  81 

Mother  Knows,   85 

Be  Careful  What  You  Say,  86 

The  Two  Friends,  .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  87 

The  Lazy  Boy,  89 

A  Shocking  Tease,  ............  90 

Making  Mud  Pies,  .....        ........  93 

November,  .94 

A  Friend  in  Need,   95 

Christmas  on  the  "  Polly,"      ..........  .97 

"If  I  Were  You,"   98 

"A  Rhyme  for  a  Rainy  Day,"       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .101 

A  Christmas-Day  Dream,        ....        ....        ...  102 

The  Mushroom  Fairies,  ...........  105 

Hanging  the  Stockings,  .  .  ......        .  106 

A  Guess  for  the  Children,      ...........  107 

Christmas,         ...........        ...  108 

A  Secret  with  Santa  Claus,   108 

A  Hot  Roasted  Chestnut,       ...........      1 10 

Christmas  Day,        ...   11 1 

The  Falling  Leaves,       .       .        .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .112 

Not  Appreciated,      .............      1 15 

Two  Little  Artists,  116 

Elocutionary  Selections,    ............  132 

A  Hero,  133 

An  April  Joke,  134 

Where  Do  the  Wrinkles  Come  From,  .       .       .       .       .       .       .  135 

A  Cobweb  Made  to  Order,   137 

The  Young  Husband  to  His  Wife,   .  .138 

The  Unfinished  Prayer,  ...........  139 

Rover  in  Church,     .   .  140 

Time  Turns  the  Tables,   144 

Good-Night,  145 

When  We  Were  Girls,  147 

Good  and  Better,  .148 

The  Huskin',    .        .       .        .       .       .       .        .       .       .       .       .       .        .  e  151 

Leedle  Yawcob  Strauss,  .    153 

A  Picture,  155 

The  Child  Musician,  156 

Two  Fishers,    ..............  156 

Familiar  Talk,   1 57 

A  New- Year's  Resolve,   159 

What  He  Said,  160 

That  Line  Fence,  .       .       .       .       .       .       .        .       .       .       ,  .162 

Abraham  Lincoln  and  the  Poor  Woman,  ^.  .166 

The  Magical  Isle,  0  168 


INDEX  TO  CONTENTS.  13 

PAGE 

W^u  Weather  Outside,  ...       .....       .  .170 

Where  Are  the  Wicked  Folks  Buried?   171 

As  Jacob  Served  for  Rachel,  .172 

The  Brownie's  Xmas,      ............  176 

Air-Castles,   182 

The  New  Church  Doctrine,   186 

The  Old  Farm-House,   189 

The  Motherless  Turkeys,        ...........  190 

The  Shepherd's  Dog,       ............  192 

Little  Rocket's  Christmas,       ...........  196 

Christmas  with  My  Mother,   204 

A  Passing  Cloud,     .............  205 

The  Magpie's  Lesson,   206 

Tired  Mothers,   208 

"Discretion  Is  the  Better  Part  of  Valor,"   .210 

The  Elephant  and  the  Child,   .       .  .211 

Nearer  to  Thee,   212 

Little  Jo,   214 

Birthday  Gifts,   217 

The  Successful  Man,   220 

Parting,  v   .221 

Resolves,  ...............  222 

The  Household  Angel,   225 

Things  Never  Done,       .   225 

The  Rainy  Day,      .   226 

Poem  for  Recitation,   227 

"  God  Hath  His  Plan  for  Every  Man,"   230 

The  Two  Mysteries,        ............  231 

Speak  Tenderly,                                                                                                 .  232 

The  Loved  and  Lost,   233 

"Comforting:  Words,"      ............  234 

The  Last  Kiss,   236 

Dimes  and  Dollars,          .   238 

A  Happy  Pair,   240 

Somebody's  Mother,        ............  243 

Granny's  G:ace,   244 

Golden  Hair,     .       .............  245 

A  Farewell,   246 

A  Fourth  of  July  Record,   249 

Castle-Building,   250 

Willie's  Adventure,          ............  251 

In  Santa-Claus  Land,   252 

Mother  Goose's  Party,     ...........        .  261 

The  Ugliest  of  Seven,   266 

Trusty  and  True,     .............  277 

The  Temperance  Lesson,   283 

Visit  of  Santa  Claus,       ,                                                                                   .  284 

I'm  a  Man,   286 

Vacation  Fun,          .............  287 

A  Colloquy,   .288 

Signing  the  Pledge,         ............  289 

The  Matrimonial  Advertisement,   297 

Talking  Flowers,      .............  301 

Under  an  Umbrella,   305 

After  Twenty  Years,   310 


14 


INDEX  TO  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Song,        .       .       .       .  .  ,  .318 

Johnnie's  Trial  for  a  Christmas  Prize,    .        .        .        .        .  .  .321 

Margery's  Christmas  Dollar,     .       .        .        .        .        .  -  .        .       .       .  322 

A  Christmas  Guest,         ....       0       ......       .  325 

Christmas  on  an  Island,   ............  328 

A  Christmas  Dream,        ............  329 

A  Western  Christmas,     .       .        .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  332 

The  Christmas  Box  and  What  Came  of  It,  .......  333 

Ray's  Christmas  Prize,     ............  335 

Santa-Claus'  Reindeer,      ............  335 

Psychology  and  Mineralogy,   ...........  336 

The  Bird's  Last  Christmas,     .   338 

The  Story  without  a  Name,    ...........  341 

Little  Luigi's  Christmas,  ...........  342 

A  Mischievous  Cat's  Christmas,   .  345 

The  Christmas  Ghost,      ............  345 

A  Christmas  Dream,       ............  347 

The  Merry  Christmas  Helpers,       ..........  348 

The  Influence  of  Christmas  Stories  on  a  Deaf  and  Dumb  Girl,    ....  349 

A  Lucky  Christmas,        ...........        .  350 

A  Christmas  with  the  Fairies,        .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  351 


INDEX  TO  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Christmas  Morning, 
The  Children's  Room, 
In  Quaint  Array, 
A  Merry  Dance, 
Bed-Time, 
Summer  Thoughts, 
Alone, 

Our  Christmas  Tree 
A  Ride  in  State, 
The  Message, 
A  Maiden, 
Flowers,  . 
Little  Miss  Tulip, 
Everything  Snowed  Up, 
Day  Dreams, 
The  Rain, 
A  Ride  on  Sands, 
Nutting  Party, 
Angel's  Song, 
Girl  by  the  Sea, 
Poor  Little  Crab, 
The  Wonder  Story, 
Bird's  Nest, 
Christmas  Song, 
A  Christmas  Dream, 
An  Interested  Listener, 


PAGE 

FRONTISPIECE 

31 

53 
69 

83 
91 
99 
103 

141 
149 

163 

183 
201 
223 
241 
247 

255 
263 
279 
293 
3°3 
3J9 
329 
339 


REMOTE  STORAGE 

"**"""-fifl(i>iH|[jiiy 

RIGHT  AND  NOT  MIGHT  RULES  THE  WORLD. 


We  get  back  our  mete  as  we 
measure — 

We  cannot  do  wrong  and 


But  always  the  path  that 
is  narrow 
And  straight  for  the  children 
of  men. 


WHAT  WILLIE  SAID. 


WHAT  WILLIE  SAID. 

Hear  what  a  little  child  would  say, 
Who  comes  to  school  each  pleasant  day, 

And  tries  to  learn  his  lessons  well, 
A  good  report  at  home  to  tell. 

I  love  the  school,  and  teacher  dear, 
And  all  the  scholars  gathered  here ; 


To  each  I  say  in  simple  rhyme, 
Be  careful,  do  not  waste  your  time. 

For  moments  spent  in  life's  young  day, 
In  useless  or  in  thoughtless  play, 

Will  cast  a  shade  o'er  future  years, 
And  cause  you  many  sighs  and  tears. 


TROTTY  AND  DO'Tl  Y.  17 

TROTTY  AND  DOTTY. 

A  STORY  IN  SIMPLE  WORDS. 

Trotty  and  Dotty  were  two  little  boys.  They  were  very  fond  of 
singing,  and  nothing  gave  them  more  pleasure  than  getting  some  of 
their  mamma's  music-books,  and  singing  as  they  stood  on  the  great 
soft  hearth-rug. 

To  be  sure  they  did  not  sing  the  words  that  were  in  the  book,  for 
Trotty  and  Dotty  could  not  read,  but  they  sang  words  that  they  knew, 
and  made  up  the  tune  as  they  went  along.    So  that  it  was  not  much  of 


a  tune  ;  but  that  did  not  matter  to  Trotty  and  Dotty,  as  long  as  they 
shouted  and  made  as  much  noise  as  they  could.  This  is  one  of  the 
songs  they  used  to  sing  over  and  over  again: 


There  was  once  a  robin, 

And  he  sat  upon  a  tree  ; 
He  sang  song  after  song 

As  merry  as  could  be : 
And  he  said,  "  Have  not  I 

A  fine  scarlet  vest  ? 
That's  why  people  call  me 

A  robin  redbreast." 


A  cat  came  so  softly 

When  she  heard  him  sing; 
And  when  she  got  up  near  him 

She  made  a  sudden  spring; 
But  the  robin  he  saw  her, 

And  quickly  flew  away, 
Or  else  he'd  have  sung  there 

The  whole  of  the  day. 


"Hurrah,  is  not  that  fine  singing  ?" 

They  had  sung  the  song  five  times,  and  were  going  to  sing  it  again, 
for  they  liked  it  so  much.  But  if  they  liked  it,  their  little  dog  Nip 
did  not,  and  when  the  brothers  began  the  song  for  the  sixth  time,  he 
lifted  up  his  head  and  gave  a  dismal  howl. 

"Be  quiet,  Nip,"  said  Trotty;  but  Nip  took  no  notice  of  what  was  said 


A  NEW  TIME-TABLE. 


A  NEW  TIME-TABLE. 


Sixty  seconds  make  a  minute* 
How  much  good  can  I  do  in  it? 
Sixty  minutes  make  an  hour, — 
All  the  good  that's  in  my  power. 
Twenty  hours  and  four,  a  day, — 


Time  for  work,  and  sleep,  and  play. 


Days,  three  hundred  sixty-five 
Make  a  year  for  me  to  strive 


Right  good  things  for  me  to  do, 
That  I  wise  may  grow,  and  true. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  WEEK. 

The  child  that  is  born  on  the  Sabbath  day 
Is  blithe  and  bonny,  and  good  and  gay; 
Monday's  child  is  fair  of  face; 
Tuesday's  child  is  full  of  grace; 
Wednesday's  child  is  merry  and  glad; 
Thursday's  child  is  sour  and  sad; 
Friday's  child  is  loving  and  giving; 
And  Saturday's  child  must  work  for  its  living. 


THE  MONTHS. 

Thirty  days  hath  September, 
April,  June  and  November; 
February  hath  twenty-eight  alone. 
All  the  rest  have  thirty-one, 
Excepting  Leap  year,  that's  the  time 
When  February's  days  are  twenty-nine. 


DAYS  OF  THE  WEEK. 


DAYS  OF  THE  WEEK. 

Seven  bright  jewels  our  Father  above 

Hath  given  His  children,  in  mercy  and  love: 

Beautiful  jewels  set  in  gold 

For  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  young  and  the  o 

But  one  He  asks  may  to  Him  be  given, 

That  each  may  have  some  treasure  in  Heaven. 

These  jewels  are  days,  and  we  are  blest 

With  hours  for  labor,  and  hours  for  rest. 

Let  us  work  with  all  zeal,  be  fervent  in  spirit, 

That  we  may  the  kingdom  of  Heaven  inherit. 


FACTS  FOR  LITTLE  FOLKS. 

Tea  is  prepared  from  the  leaf  of  a  tree; 
Honey  is  gathered  and  made  by  the  bee. 
Butter  is  made  from  the  milk  of  the  cow; 
Pork  is  the  flesh  of  the  pig  or  the  sow. 
Oil  is  obtained  from  fish  and  from  flax; 
Candles  are  made  of  tallow  and  wax. 
Worsted  is  made  from  wool,  soft  and  warm; 
Silk  is  preoared  and  spun  by  a  worm. 


SCHOOL  TIME. 

Now  Jenny,  and  Mollie,  and  Robert,  and  John, 

Attend  to  your  letters,  I  pray  ; 
For  if  with  your  reading  you  do  not  get  on, 

You'll  never  be  ready  for  play. 

Attention  to  lessons  brings  laughter  af  play, 
Glad  faces,  with  merriment  bright, 


A  GENTLE  MAN, 


Good  temper,  and  hearts  full  of  sunshine  by  day, 
And  sweet,  peaceful  slumbers  at  night. 

Then  on  with  your  letters,  a,  e,  i,  o,  u— 

The  dullest  can  honestly  try  ; 
And  who  would  not  work  with  the  prospect  in  view 

Of  reading  bright  books  by-and-by  ? 

M.  H.  F.  Donne. 


A  GENTLE  MAN. 

"  Be  very  gentle  with  her,  my  son,"  said  Mrs.  B — ,  as  she  tied  on 
her  little  girl's  bonnet,  and  sent  her  out  to  play  with  her  elder  brother. 

They  had  not  been  out  long  before  a  cry  was  heard,  and  presently 
Julius  came,  and  threw  down  his  hat,  saying: 

"  I  hate  playing  with  girls  !  There's  no  fun  with  them;  they  cry 
in  a  minute." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  to  your  sister  ?  I  see  her  lying  there 
on  the  gravel  walk  ;  you  have  torn  her  frock,  and  pushed  her  down.  I 
am  afraid  you  forgot  my  caution  to  be  gentle." 

"  Gentle  !  Boys  can't  be  gentle,  mother;  it's  their  nature  to  be 
rough  and  strong.  They  are  the  stuff  soldiers  and  sailors  are  made  of. 
Its  very  well  to  talk  of  a  gentle  girl;  but  a  gentle  boy — it  sounds 
ridiculous  !" 

"And  yet,  Julius,  a  few  years  hence,  you  would  be  angry  if  any 
one  were  to  say  you  were  not  a  gentle  man." 

"A  gentle  man  !  I  had  never  thought  of  dividing  the  word  that 
way  before.    Being  gentle  seems  to  me  like  being  weak  and  soft." 

"This  is  so  far  from  being  the  case,  my  son,  that  you  will  always 
find  the  bravest  men  are  the  most  gentle.  The  spirit  of  chivalry  that 
you  so  much  admire,  is  a  spirit  of  the  noblest  courage  and  the  utmost 
gentleness  combined.  Still,  I  dare  say,  you  would  rather  be  called  a 
manly  than  a  gentle  boy." 

"Yes,  indeed,  mother." 


THE  DUNCE'S  BENCH. 


21 


"  Well,  then,  my  son,  it  is  my  greatest  wish  that  you  should  en- 
deavor to  unite  the  two.  Show  yourself  manly  when  you  are  exposed 
to  danger,  or  see  others  in  peril ;  be  manly  when  called  on  to  speak 
the  truth,  though  the  speaking  of  it  may  bring  reproach  upon  you ; 
be  manly  when  you  are  in  sickness  or  pain.  At  the  same  time  be  gentle, 
whether  you  are  with  women  or  men.  By  putting  the  two  spirits  to- 
gether, you  will  deserve  a  name  which,  perhaps,  you  will  not  dislike." 

"1  see  what  you  mean,  mother,  and  I  will  try  to  be  what  you  wish 
—a  gentlemanly  boy." 

THE  DUNCE'S  BENCH. 

Again  we  see  the  dunce's  row, 

The  boys  who  never  try  to  know  ; 

Who  application  always  shirk, 

And  never  set  their  wits  at  work. 

Yet  George  looks  grave,  his  earnest  face 

Seems  fitted  for  a  better  place. 


Oh,  boys  !  be  wise  ;  the  precious  hours 
Are  going  fast,  like  fading  flowers  ; 
Oh,  seek  to  learn  in  early  days, 
Walk  carefully  in  wisdom's  ways  ; 
Fill  up  the  moments  as  they  fly, 
For  soon  will  come  eternity. 


TWENTY  LITTLE  SCHOOL-MATES. 

TWENTY  LITTLE  SCHOOL-MATES. 

The  roses  had  fallen,  and  the  weather  was  cool, 

Twenty  little  lassies,  returning  from  school, 

I  thought  were  so  pretty,  and  tidy,  and  neat, 

To  my  house  I  would  ask  them,  just  over  the  street. 

They  played,  and  they  danced,  and  they  skipped,  and  they  sang, 

And  the  porches  and  parlors  with  laughter  they  rang, 


And  sweet  as  a  picture  the  beautiful  sight 
Of  twenty  little  ladies  so  happy  and  bright. 
I  called  them  my  lambs,  and  the  garden  my  fold; 
And  precious  as  silver,  as  good  as  the  gold, 
Were  twenty  little  maidens,  so  tidy  and  neat, 
Whom  I  asked  to  my  house  just  over  the  street; 
Though  autumn  be  sad,  and  winter  be  wild, 
'Tis  summer  for  all  in  the  heart  of  the  child. 


"All  is  not  gold  that  glitters;" 

Yet  think  not,  children  mine, 
That  all  that  glitters  is  not  gold; 
The  true  must  ring  and  shine. 


HOW  COLUMBUS  FOUND  AMERICA. 

HOW  COLUMBUS  FONUD  AMERICA. 

Columbus  stood  upon  the  deck; 

"Go  home!"  the  sailors  cried; 
'Not  if  I  perish  on  the  wreck," 

Great  Christopher  replied. 

Next  day  the  crew  got  out  their  knives 

And  went  for  Captain  C. 
"Go  home!"  they  yelled,  "and  save  our  lives," 

"Wait  one  more  day,1'  said  he. 

"Then  if  I  cannot  tell  how  far 

We're  from  the  nearest  land 
I'll  take  you  home."    "Agreed,  we  are!" 

Answered  the  sea-sick  band. 

That  night  when  all  were  fast  asleep 

Columbus  heaved  the  lead, 
And  measuring  the  water  deep, 

Took  notes  and  went  to  bed. 

To-morrow  dawned.    Naught  could  be  seen 

But  water,  wet  and  cold; 
Columbus,  smiling  and  serene, 

Looked  confident  and  bold. 

"Now,  Cap!    How  far  from  land  are  we?" 

The  mutineers  out  cried. 
"Just  ninety  fathoms,1'  Captain  C. 

Most  truthfully  replied. 

"If  you  doubt  it,  heave  the  lead 

And  measure,  same  as  I." 
"You're  right,'  the  sailors  laughed,  "Great  head! 

We'll  stick  to  you  or  die." 


TRUST  YOUR  MOTHER. 


And  thus,  in  fourteen  ninety-two, 

America  was  found, 
Because  the  great  Columbus  knew 

How  far  off  was  the  ground. 

H.  c.  Dodge. 


TRUST  YOUR  MOTHER. 

Trust  your  mother,  little  one! 
In  life's  morning  just  begun, 
You  will  find  some  grief,  some  fears, 
Which  perhaps  may  cause  you  tears; 
But  a  mother's  kiss  can  heal 
Many  griefs  that  children  feel. 

Trust  your  mother,  noble  youth, 
Turn  not  from  the  path  of  truth; 
In  temptation's  evil  hour, 
Seek  her,  ere  it  gains  new  power. 
She  will  never  guide  you  wrong; 
Faith  in  her  will  make  you  strong. 

Trust  your  mother,  maiden  fairl 
Love  will  guide  your  steps  with  care, 
Let  no  cloud  e'er  come  between — 
Let  no  shadow  e'er  be  seen 
Hiding  from  your  mother's  heart 
What  may  prove  a  poisoned  dart. 

Trust  your  mother  to  the  end, 
She  will  prove  your  constant  friend; 
If  'tis  gladness  wings  the  hour, 
Share  with  her  the  joyful  shower; 
Or  if  sorrow  should  oppress, 
She  will  smile  and  she  will  bless. 


WHICH  IS  THE  BEST? 


WHICH  IS  THE  BEST? 

A  DIALOGUE  FOR  FIVE  LITTLE  GIRLS. 

1st  Girl— I'm  a  little  country  lassie, 

I  can  iron,  churn  and  bake, 
Wash  the  dishes,  feed  the  poultry, 

Mix  a  famous  johnny-cake  ; 
Ride  the  horses  down  to  water, 

Drive  the  cows  to  pastures  green — 
I  would  not  exchange  my  station 

For  the  throne  of  England's  queen. 

2d  Girl — Mother  calls  me  little  student ; 

I  can  cipher,  read  and  spell, 
Draw  a  map  or  bound  a  country, 

And  in  "  mental"  I  excel. 
I  shall  climb  the  hill  of  knowledge, 

To  its  very  top  will  go; 
Then  success  will  crown  my  efforts, 

Teacher  says — and  ain't  it  so  ? 

3d  Girl— I  am  nothing  but  a  noodle, 

Mother  told  me  so  to-day. 
But  I  really  cannot  study, 

When  the  very  fields  are  gay. 
Birds  are  calling  from  the  tree-tops — 

Spring  is  waking  lake  and  rill ; 
You  may  mope  o'er  prosy  lessons, 

I  will  be  a  noodle  still. 

4th  Girl — I'm  a  little  city  maiden, 

You  would  know  this  by  my  style, 
Quite  unlike  those  country  rustics, 
With  their  broad,  uncourteous  smile. 


20 


THE  CLERK  OF  THE  IV EAT  HER. 


I'll  not  soil  my  hands  with  labor, 
Mine  were  made  for  higher  things  ; 

Papa  calls  me  "little  angel," 
All  I  lack,  he  says,  is  wings. 

!>th  Girl — I'm  my  mother's  little  helper, 

And  am  happy  all  day  long ; 
I  can  bring  dear  papa's  slippers, 

Sing  the  baby's  cradle  song. 
Rock  him  till  the  angels'  whispers 

Make  him  smile  from  dreamland  shore  ; 
Run  a  thousand  ways  for  mother, 

Can  a  little  girl  do  more  ? 


THE  CLERK  OF  THE  WEATHER. 

Oh,  please  can  you  tell  us  the  way 
To  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather?  They  say 
He  can  stop  all  this  rain,  if  he  will, 
And  drive  off  the  mists  from  the  hill, 
And  make  the  sky  sunny  and  blue, 
And  let  out  the  butterflies  too. 
We're  so  tired  of  staying  indoors, 
While  all  day  long  it  pours  and  pours. 

Alas,  but  the  journey  was  long, 
And  folks  kept  directing  us  wrong; 
Our  naughty  shoes  somehow  would  stray 
Wherever  the  worst  puddles  lay; 
So  here  we  are  back  once  again, 
All  weary  and  cross,  in  the  rain; 
For  what  little  boys  or  girls,  pray, 
Could  be  good  on  such  a  wet  day? 


THE  CLERK  OF  THE  WEATHER. 


27 


ALL  WEARY  AND  CROSS,  IN  THE  RAIN. 


We'll  peep  in  the  schoolhouse — oh  dear! 
Why,  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather's  been  here, 
And  breathed  on  the  glass,  I  declare, 
And  made  it  go  up  toward  "fair." 
Come  on — there's  the  sun  smiling  out, 
And  a  butterfly  sailing  about; 
Good  Clerk  of  the  Weather  —  he  knew, 
All  the  time,  without  us,  what  to  do! 


COME  ON!   THERE'S  THE  SUN  SMILING  OUT." 


VACATION  SONG. 


VACATION  SONG. 

Come  to  the  fields,  little  laddies,  and  lassies; 

Leave  for  awhile  all  the  lessons  and  books, 
Dance  on  the  grass  with  the  frolicsome  breezes, 

Swing  on  the  tree  boughs,  and  play  by  the  brooks. 

Drive  home  the  cows  from  the  hillsides  and  hollows, 
Where  they  are  pasturing  all  the  day  thro', 

Gather  wild  berries  that  redden  and  ripen, 
Feed  on  the  sunshine,  the  rain  and  the  dew. 


MEADOW  FLOWERS. 


Watch  the  brisk  bees,  roving  hither  and  thither, 
Working  and  storing  their  harvest  of  sweets, 

Follow  the  steps  of  the  fleet-footed  squirrels, 
Hieing  away  to  their  woodland  retreats. 

Pluck  the  gold  buttercups,  pluck  the  white  daisies, 
Thick  in  the  meadows  as  stars  in  the  sky, 

Listen  and  hear  the  gay  bobolinks  carol, 
Hear  the  soft  notes  of  the  thrush  in  reply! 


THE  PEARL  OF  GREAT  PRICE. 


THE  PEARL  OF  GREAT  PRICE. 

RY  RUTH  KINGDON. 

A  crowded  church — a  sheltered  seat, 

A  shield  from  the  winter's  cold, 
Two  pair  of  tired,  noiseless  feet, 

Two  homeless  children  bold  : 
The  music  soft,  the  heads  devout, 

The  psalms  and  solemn  prayer, 
Made  chill  and  homelessness  die  out, 

For  love  divine  was  there. 

His  text  the  pastor  slowly  read, 

And  valiantly  he  preached  ; 
But  just  one  thought  of  all  he  said, 

The  hearts  of  the  newsboys  reached  ; 
"  Of  all  the  gems  in  all  the  earth 

This  pearl  is  far  the  best ; 
'Twill  feed,  and  clothe,  and  fill  with  mirth, 

Twill  furnish  perfect  rest." 

The  service  closed — the  boys  stole  out 

Awestruck  and  wonder  wrapt ; 
This  priceless  gem  they'd  heard  about 

All  business  handicapped. 
"Let's  start  and  go  the  world  around, 

And  see  what  we  can  do  ; 
We'll  seek  this  gem  until  'tis  found, 

By  either  me  or  or  you." 

They  traveled  many  a  country  through 

'Mid  hardships  keen  and  toil ; 
Sometimes  the  quest  their  hearts  did  rue, — 

Slight  ic.med  the  coveted  spoil, 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SEASON. 


But  on  they'd  toil  with  hopes  renewed 

For  many,  many  days  ; 
And  oft  their  fateful  pathway  stood 

In  the  gospel's  holy  ways. 

And  when  the  way  seemed  rou^h  and  long, 

God's  cheer  gleamed  through  the  gloom ; 
It  changed  their  sadness  into  song, 

And  set  the  way  a-blcom. 
At  last  they  found  the  treasure — 

Twas  nearer  than  they  thought ; 
For  with  surprise  and  wonder, 

Each  found  it  in  his  heart  I 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SEASON. 

Bring  out  the  rusty  garden  rake, 

Hunt  up  the  hoe  and  spade, 
For  spring  is  here,  and  it  is  time 

To  have  the  garden  made. 

Your  wife  will  lean  upon  the  fence, 
And  watch  you  while  you  work, 

She's  always  prompt  to  give  advice, 
SheTl  never  let  you  shirk. 

Don't  waste  your  time  in  trying  to  tell 
The  bulbs  from  worthless  weeds  ; 

Dig  them  all  up  ;  that's  easiest,  and 
You'll  need  the  room  for  seeds. 

Work  hard,  man,  you  won't  break  your  back, 

Though  you  may  fear  you  may. 
Don't  stop  to  lean  upon  your  spade — 

Think  what  your  wife  will  say. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  ROOM. 


m  LIBMflY 
OF  W 
UM1VEBS1TY  ttF  ILL 


A  BOYS  BELIEF. 


33 


Then  when  you've  got  the  garden  dug, 

The  seeds  all  out  of  sight, 
You'd  better  hire  a  gardener 

To  do  it  over  right. 

SOMERVILLE  JOURNALr 


A  BOY'S  BELIEF. 

It  isn't  much  fun  a  livin', 

If  grandpa  says  what's  true — 
That  this  is  the  jolliest  time  o'  life 

That  I'm  a-passing  through. 
Tm  'fraid  he  can't  remember — 

It's  been  so  awful  long ; 
I'm  sure  if  he  could  recollect 

He'd  know  that  he  was  wrong. 

Did  he  ever  have,  I  wonder, 

A  sister  just  like  mine, 
Who'd  take  his  skates,  or  break  his  kite, 

Or  tangle  up  his  twine  ? 
Did  he  ever  chop  the  kindling, 

Or  fetch  in  coal  and  wood, 
Or  offer  to  turn  the  wringer  ? 

If  he  did,  he  was  awful  good  1 

How  can  grandpa  remember 

A  fellow's  grief  or  joy  ? 
Twixt  you  and  me,  I  don't  believe 

He  ever  was  a  boy. 
Is  this  the  jolliest  time  o'  life  ? 

Believe  it  I  never  can; 
Nor  that  it's  as  nice  to  be  a  boy 

As  really  a  grown-up  man. 

Harper's  Young  People. 


34 


A  NATION'S  STRENGTH. 


A  NATION'S  STRENGTH. 

BY  WILLIAM  RALPH  EMERSON. 

What  builds  a  nation's  pillars  high, 

And  its  foundations  strong  ? 
What  makes  it  mighty  to  defy 

The  foes  that  round  it  throng  ? 

It  is  not  gold.    Its  kingdoms  grand 

Go  down  in  battle's  shock  ; 
Its  shafts  are  laid  on  sinking  sand, 

Not  on  abiding  rock. 

Is  it  the  sword  ?   Ask  the  red  dust 

Of  empires  passed  away  ; 
The  blood  has  turned  their  stones  to  rust, 

Their  glory  to  decay. 

And  is  it  pride  ?    Ah  !  that  bright  crown 
Has  seemed  to  nations  sweet ; 

But  God  has  struck  its  luster  down 
In  ashes  at  His  feet. 

Not  gold,  but  only  man,  can  make 

A  people  great  and  strong ; 
Men  who,  for  truth  and  honor's  sake, 

Stand  fast  and  suffer  long. 

Brave  men  who  work  while  others  sleep, 
Who  dare  while  others  fly, — 

They  build  a  nation's  pillars  deep, 
And  lift  them  to  the  sky. 


THE  ORPHAN  TURKEYS. 


35 


THE  ORPHAN  TURKEYS. 


Twenty-two  little  turkeys 
Were  hatched  by  two  hens, 

And,  one  by  one,  some  of  them 
Came  to  bad  ends; 

Till  only  six  turkeys 
Were  shivering  with  cold. 

The  old  hens  had  weaned  them 
When  scarce  a  month  old. 

It  was  time  for  a  venture, 
So  the  poor  little  things 

Crept  up  for  a  shelter 
'Neath  the  old  rooster's  wings. 

And  not  only  then 
But  the  next  rainy  day, 


He  sheltered  them  all 
In  the  same  friendly  way. 

The  farmer's  wife  saw  it, 
And  said,  "I  declare, 

Kind-hearted  old  fellow, 
Your  life  I  will  spare. 

"I  fully  intended 

To  take  off  your  head; 
But  those  two  old  hens 

Shall  lose  theirs  instead." 

My  dear  little  children, 
You  always  will  find, 

With  folks  or  with  fowls, 
It  pays  to  be  kind. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 


We're  little  lads  and  lassies  gay, 

Pray  to  our  song  give  ear; 
We've  come  a  long  and  snowy  way 

To  sing  of  Christmas  cheer. 

There's  no  day  half  so  dear  and  glad, 

Alike  to  young  and  old; 
We  pray  that  no  one  may  be  sad, 

Or  want  for  lack  of  gold. 

That  each  may  have  a  merry  heart, 

To  greet  this  cheery  day, 
And  pass  a  happy  greeting  on 

To  all  who  come  their  way. 

For  Christmas  is  no  time  for  woe, 

Tis  a  day  for  joy  and  cheer; 
It  comes  with  wreathing  greens  and  snow 

To  round  the  happy  year. 


THE  WIND. 


THE  WIND. 

w  What  is  the  wind,  mamma  ?" 

"  Tis  air  in  motion,  child  ;" 
"  Why  can  I  never  see  the  wind 

That  blows  so  fierce  and  wild  ?" 

"  Because  the  gases,  dear, 

Of  which  the  air  is  made, 
Are  quite  transparent,  that  is,  we 

See  through,  but  see  no  shade. 

"  And  what  are  gases,  ma  ?" 

"Fluids,  which,  if  we  squeeze 
In  space  too  small,  will  burst  with  force;' 

"And  what  are  fluids,  please  ?" 

"Fluids  are  what  will  flow, 

And  gases  are  so  light 
That  when  we  give  them  room  enough, 

They  rush  with  eager  flight." 

"What  gases,  dear  mamma, 

Make  up- the  air  or  wind  ?" 
"  'Tis  oxygen  and  nitrogen 

That  chiefly  there  we  find  ; 

"And,  when  the  air  is  full 

Of  oxygen,  we're  gay  ; 
But  when  there  is  not  quite  enough 

We're  dull,  or  faint  away." 

"  What  makes  the  rain,  mamma  ?" 

"The  mists  and  vapors  rise 
From  land,  and  stream,  and  rolling  sea, 

Up  toward  the  distant  skies  ; 


THE  COUNTRY  SCHOOLHOUSE. 


37 


"  And  there  they  form  the  clouds 
Which,  when  they're  watery,  dear, 

Pour  all  the  water  down  to  earth, 
And  rain  afar  or  near." 

"  What  makes  the  snow,  mamma  ?" 

When  very  cold  above, 
The  mists  are  frozen  high  in  air, 

And  fall  as  snow,  my  love." 

"  And  hail  ?"  "  Tis  formed  the  same ; 

Cold  streams  of  air  have  come 
And  frozen  all  the  water-drops, 

And  thus  the  hail  stones  form." 


THE  COUNTRY  SCHOOLHOUSE. 

The  schoolhouse  stood  beside  the  way, 
A  shabby  building,  old  and  gray, 
With  rattling  sash,  and  loose-hung  door, 
And  rough,  uneven  walls  and  floor; 
And  why  the  little  homespun  crew 
It  gathered  were  some  ways  more  blest 
Than  others,  you  would  scarce  have  guessed, 
It  is  a  secret  known  to  few. 

I'll  tell  it  you.   The  high  road  lay 

Stretched  all  along  the  township  hill, 

Whence  the  broad  lands  sloped  either  way, 

And  smiling  up  d»d  strive  to  fill 

At  every  window,  every  door, 

The  schoolhouse,  with  that  gracious  lore 

That  God's  fair  world  would  fain  instil. 


THE  WATER  MILL. 


So  softly,  quietly  it  came, 
The  children  never  knew  its  name. 
Its  various,  unobtrusive  looks 
They  counted  not  as  study-books; 
And  yet  they  could  not  lift  an  eye 
From  play  or  labor,  dreamily, 
And  not  find  writ  in  sweetest  soeech, 
The  tender  lessons  it  would  teach: 
"Be  gentle,  children,  brave  and  true, 
And  know  the  great  God  loveth  you." 

Only  the  teacher,  wise  of  heart, 
Divined  the  landscape's  blessed  art; 
And  when  she  felt  the  lag  and  stir 
Of  her  young  idlers  fretting  her, 
Out-glancing  o'er  the  meadows  wide, 
The  ruffling  woods,  the  far  hillside, 
She  drew  fresh  breath  of  God's  free  grace, 
A  gentler  look  came  in  her  face, 
Her  kindly  voice  caught  in  its  own 
An  echo  of  that  pleasant  tone 
In  which  the  great  world  sang  its  song — 
"  Be  cheerful,  patient,  still  and  strong." 

M.  E.  Bennett. 


THE  WATERMILL. 

Listen  to  the  watermill,  through  the  livelong  day, 
How  the  clicking  of  its  wheel  wears  the  hours  away, 
Languidly  the  autumn  wind  stirs  the  greenwood  leaves, 
From  the  fields  the  reapers  sing,  binding  up  the  sheaves; 
And  a  proverb  haunts  my  mind,  as  a  spell  is  cast — 
The  mill  will  never  grind  with  the  water  that  is  past. 


THE  WA  TERMILL. 


39 


Autumn  winds  revive  no  more  leaves  that  once  are  shed, 

And  the  sickle  cannot  reap  corn  once  gathered  ; 

And  the  rippling  stream  flows  on,  tranquil,  deep,  and  still, 

Never  gliding  back  again  to  the  watermill. 

Truly  speaks  the  proverb  old,  with  a  meaning  vast — 

The  mill  will  never  grind  with  the  water  that  is  past. 

Take  the  lesson  to  thyself,  loving  heart,  and  true  ; 
Golden  years  are  fleeting  by  ;  youth  is  passing,  too  ; 
Learn  to  make  the  most  of  life,  lose  no  happy  day, 
Time  will  never  bring  thee  back  chances  swept  away  ; 
Leave  no  tender  word  unsaid,  love,  while  love  shall  last — 
The  mill  will  never  grind  with  the  water  that  is  past. 

Work  while  yet  the  daylight  shines,  man  of  strength  ar*d  will, 
Never  does  the  streamlet  glide  useless  by  the  mill ; 
Wait  not  till  to-morrow's  sun  beams  upon  thy  way, 
All  that  thou  canst  call  thine  own  lies  in  thy  to-day  ; 
Power,  intellect,  and  health  may  not  always  last — 
The  mill  will  never  grind  with  the  water  that  is  past. 

Oh  !  the  wasted  hours  of  life  that  have  drifted  by  ; 
Oh  !  the  good  we  might  have  done,  lost  without  a  sigh  ! 
Love  that  we  might  once  have  saved  by  a  single  word, 
Thoughts  conceived,  but  never  penned,  perishing,  unheard. 
Take  the  proverb  to  thine  heart,  take  and  hold  it  fast — 
The  mill  will  never  grind  with  the  water  that  is  past. 

Oh  !  love  thy  God  and  fellow-man,  thyself  consider  last ; 
For  come  it  will,  when  thou  must  scan  dark  errors  of  the  past ; 
And  when  the  fight  of  life  is  o'er,  and  earth  recedes  from  view, 
And  heaven  in  all  its  glory  shines,  'midst  the  pure,  the  good,  the 
true — 

Then  you'll  see  more  clearly  the  proverb  deep  and  vast — 
The  mill  will  never  grind  with  the  water  that  is  past. 


4o 


ASTRONOMY  MADE  EASY. 


ASTRONOMY  MADE  EASY. 

Hi-diddle-diddle, 

The  sun's  in  the  middle 
And  planets  around  him  so  grand 

Are  swinging  in  space. 

Held  forever  in  place 
In  the  zodiac  girdle  or  band. 

Hi-diddle-diddle, 

The  sun's  in  the  middle, 
And  Mercury's  next  to  the  sun: 

While  Venus  so  bright, 

Seen  at  morning  or  night, 
Comes  second  to  join  in  the  fun. 

Hi-diddle-diddle, 

The  sun's  in  the  middle, 
And  third  in  the  group  is  our  earth; 

While  Mars  with  his  fire, 

So  warlike  and  dire, 
Swings  around  to  be  counted  the  fourth 

Hi-diddle-diddle, 

The  sun's  in  the  middle, 
While  Jupiter's  next  to  Mars; 

And  his  four  moons  at  night 

Show  the  speed  of  the  light; 
Next  golden-ringed  Saturn  appears. 

Hi-diddle-diddle, 

The  sun's  in  the  middle, 
After  Saturn  comes  Uranus  far; 

And  his  antics  so  queer, 

Let  astronomers  near 
To  old  Neptune,  who  drives  the  last  car. 


STRAUSS'  BOEDRY. 


STRAUSS'  BOEDRY. 

Vagation  dime  vas  coom  again, 

Vhen  dher  vas  no  more  shgool; 
I  goes  to  boardt,  der  coundtry  oudt, 

Vhere  id  vas  nice  und  cool, 
I  dakes  Katrina  und  Loweeze, 

Und  Leedle  Yawcob  Strauss; 
Bud  at  der  boarding  house  dhey  dakes 

"No  shildren  in  der  house." 

I  dells  you  votl  some  grass  don'd  grow 

Under  old  Yawcob's  feet 
Undil  he  gets  a  gouble  a  miles 

Or  so  vay  down  der  shtreet. 
I  foundt  oudt  all  1  vanted, — 

For  the  rest  I  don'd  vould  care, — 
Dot  boarding  blace  vas  nix  for  me 

Vhen  dhere  been  no  shildren  dhere. 

Vot  vas  der  hammocks  und  der  shvings, 

Grokay,  und  dings  like  dhese, 
Und  der  hoogleperry  bicnics, 

Midoudt  Yawcob  und  Loweeze? 
It  vas  von  shdrange  conondrum, 

Dot  vos  too  much  for  Strauss, 
How  all  dhose  beople  stand  it 

Mid  no  shildren  in  der  house. 

"Oh,  vot  vas  all  dot  eardthly  bliss, 
Und  vot  vas  man's  soocksess; 

Und  vot  vas  various  kindt  of  dings, 
Und  vot  vas  habbiness?" 


THE  AXIS. 


Dot's  vot  Hans  Breittmann  ask,  von  dime — 

Dhey  all  vas  embty  soundt! 
Dot  eardthly  bliss  vas  nodings 

Vhen  dhere  vas  no  shildren  roundt. 

Charles  Follen  Adams. 


THE  AXIS. 

Child,  you  ask,  "What  is  tne Axis?" 

With  an  apple  I  will  show; 
Place  your  thumb  upon  the  stem-place, 

And  your  finger  at  the  blow; 
Now  we'll  just  suppose  the  apple 

Has  a  stem  that  passes  through, 
And  this  stem  would  be  the  Axis; 

Now  well  whirl  the  apple,  true. 

Holding  fast  'twixt  thumb  and  finger, — 

That's  the  way  the  earth  goes  round 
On  its  Axis,  as  we  call  it, 

Though  no  real  stem  is  found. 
And  the  two  ends  of  the  Axis 

Have  been  called  the  Poles,  my  dear; 
Yes,  the  North  Pole  and  the  South  Pole, 

Where  'tis  very  cold  and  drear. 

Now  we'll  hold  a  bigger  apple 

At  a  distance,  for  the  sun; 
Tip  the  smaller  one  a  little, 

And  then  slowly  wheel  it  round 
All  around  the  larger  apple, 

And  it  represents  the  earth 
Circling  round  the  Sun  that  holds  it, 

Ceaseless,  in  its  yearly  path. 


NOT  READY  FOR  SCHOOL. 


43 


Wondrous  is  the  strong  attraction 

Of  the  Sun  which  holds  in  place 
All  the  Planets  and  their  turnings, 

All  the  Stars  that  see  His  face; 
But  more  wondrous  far,  the  power 

That  created  Sun  and  us, 
And  that  gave  a  form  and  being 

To  this  mighty  Universe. 

"The  Universe!"  now  you  exclaim; 

"By  the  Universe,  what  do  you  mean?" 
Tis  the  Sun  and  the  Planets,  and  everything  known 

That  we  call  by  this  Universe  name. 

Now  the  "Planets,"  you  ask, 
"What  are  Planets?"  They're  globes, 

Some  larger,  some  smaller  than  earth, — 
Which  are  swinging  in  space, 

And  are  held  in  place, 
By  the  God-power  that  first  gave  them  birth. 


NOT  READY  FOR  SCHOOL. 

Pray,  where  is  my  hat  ?   It  is  taken  away, 
And  my  shoe-strings  are  all  in  a  knot, 

I  can't  find  a  thing  where  it  should  be  to-day, 
Though  I  hunted  in  every  spot. 

Do,  Rachel,  just  look  for  my  speller  up-stairs^- 

My  reader  is  somewhere  there,  too ; 
And  sister,  just  brush  down  these  troublesome  hairs, 

And  mother,  just  fasten  my  shoe. 


44 


NOT  READY  FOR  SCHOOL. 


And  sister,  beg  father  to  write  an  excuse  ;— 

But  stop  !  he  will  only  say  "  No  ;" 
And  go  on  with  a  smile  and  keep  reading  the  news, 

While  everything  bothers  me  so. 


My  satchel  is  heavy  and  ready  to 
fall, 

This  old  pop-gun  is  breaking 

my  map  ; 
I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 

pop-gun  or  ball, 
There's  no  playing  for  such  a 

poor  chap. 

The  town-clock  will  strike  in  a 
minute,  I  fear, 
Then  away  to  the  foot  I  will 
sink ; 

There  !  look  at  my  Carpenter  tumbled  down  here, 
And  my  Worcester  covered  over  with  ink. 

1  wish  Td  not  lingered  at  breakfast  the  last, 
Though  the  toast  and  the  butter  were  fine  ; 

I  think  that  our  Edward  must  eat  pretty  fast, 
To  be  off  when  I  haven't  done  mine. 


Now  Edward  and  Henry  protest  they  wont  wait, 
And  beat  on  the  door  with  their  sticks ; 

I  suppose  they  will  say  I  was  dressing  too  late  ; 
To-morrow  I'll  be  up  at  six. 

Caroline  Gilman. 


THE  FIRST  POCKET. 


45 


THE  FIRST  POCKET. 

What  is  this  tremendous  noise  ? 

What  can  be  the  matter  ? 
Willie's  coming  up  the  stairs 

With  unusual  clatter. 
Now  he  bursts  into  the  room, 

Noisy  as  a  rocket : 
"  Auntie  !  I  am  five  years  old — 

And  I've  got  a  pocket  !" 

Eyes  as  round  and  bright  as  stars  ; 

Cheeks  like  apples  glowing  ; 
Heart  that  this  new  treasure  fills 

Quite  to  overflowing. 
"Jack  may  have  his  squeaking  boots  ; 

Kate  may  have  her  locket  : 
I've  got  something  better  yet, — 

I  have  got  a  pocket  1" 

All  too  fresh  the  joy  to  make 

Emptiness  a  sorrow : 
Little  hand  is  plump  enough 

To  fill  it — till  to-morrow. 
And  ere  many  days  were  o'er, 

Strangest  things  did  stock  it  : 
Nothing  ever  came  amiss 

To  this  wondrous  pocket. 

Leather,  marbles,  bits  of  string, 

Licorice-sticks  and  candy, 
Stones,  a  ball,  his  pennies  too : 

It  was  always  handy. 


A  LITTLE  CHILD'S  FANCY. 


And,  when  Willies  snug  in  bed, 
Should  you  chance  to  knock  it, 

Sundry  treasures  rattle  out 
From  this  crowded  pocket. 

Sometimes  Johnny's  borrowed  knife 

Found  a  place  within  it : 
He  forgot  that  he  had  said, 

"  I  want  it  just  a  minute." 
Once  the  closet-key  was  lost ; 

No  one  could  unlock  it : 
Where  do  you  suppose  it  was  ? — 

Down  in  Willie's  pocket. 

Elizabeth  Sill. 


NUMBER. 

A  noun  or  name  that  means  but  one, 
Is  called  in  the  singular  number; 

But  when  it  stands  for  more  than  one, 
Tis  plural,  child,  remember. 


A  LITTLE  CHILD'S  FANCY. 

I  think  that  the  world  was  finished  at  night, 
Or  the  stars  would  not  have  been  made; 

For  they  wouldn't  have  thought  of  having  the  light, 
If  they  hadn't  first  seen  the  shade. 

And  then,  again,  I  alter  my  mind, 

And  think  perhaps  it  was  day, 
And  the  starry  night  was  only  designed 

For  a  little  child  tired  of  play, 


A  LITTLE  CHILD'S  FANCY. 


47 


And  I  think  that  an  angel,when 
nobody  knew, 
With  a  window  pushed  up 
very  high, 
Let  some  of  the  seeds  of  the 
flowers  fall  through 
From  the  gardens  they  have 
in  the  sky. 

For  they  couldn't  think  here 
of  lilies  so  white, 
And  such  beautiful  roses,  I 
know; 

But  I  wonder  when  falling 
from  such  a  height, 
The  dear  little  seeds  should 
grow! 

And  then,  when  the  face  of  the 
angel  has  turned, 
I  think  that  the  birds  flew 

by, 

And  are  singing  to  us  the  songs 
they  learned 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
sky. 

And  a  rainbow  must  be  the  shining  below 

Of  a  place  in  Heaven's  floor  that  is  thin. 
Right  close  to  the  door  where  the  children  go 

When  the  dear  Lord  lets  them  in. 
And  1  think  that  the  clouds  that  float  in  the  skies 

Are  the  curtains  that  they  drop  down, 
For  fear  when  we  look  we  should  dazzle  our  eyes, 

As  they  each  of  them  put  on  their  crown. 


LESSON  IN  ARITHMETIC. 


I  do  not  know  why  the  water  was  sent, 

Unless,  perhaps,  it  might  be 
God  wanted  us  all  to  know  what  it  meant 

When  we  read  of  the  "Jasper  Sea." 

Oh!  the  world  where  we  live  is  a  lovely  place, 

But  it  oftentimes  make  me  sigh, 
For  I'm  always  trying  causes  to  trace, 

And  keep  thinking  "Wherefore?"  and  "Why?" 

Ah!  dear  little  child,  the  longing  you  feel 

Is  the  stir  of  immortal  wings, 
But  infinite  love  will  one  day  reveal 

The  most  hidden  and  puzzling  things. 

You  have  only  your  duty  to  try  and  do, 

To  be  happy,  and  rest  content; 
For  by  being  good  and  by  being  true 

You  will  find  out  all  that  is  meant! 

Mrs.  L.  C.  Whiton. 


LESSON  IN  ARITHMETIC. 

Four  robin  redbreasts  on  the  old  apple  tree, 
Whose  pink  and  white  blossoms  are  as  thick  as  can 
If  two  of  these  birds  should  quick  fly  away, 
How  many  redbreasts  would  be  left?  tell  me,  pray 
(ANSWER.) 

Only  two  would  be  left  but  they  would  not  stay, 
For  they  never  will — I  have  watched  them  to-day. 

Tom's  six  frisky  kittens  are  chasing  their  tails, 
As  the  milkmaid  passes  with  o'erflowing  pails — 
If  two  of  the  kittens  remain  at  their  play, 
Then  how  many  have  followed  the  milkmaid;  say? 


LESSON  IN  ARITHMETIC. 


49 


(ANSWER.) 

Four  dear  little  kittens  have  followed  the  maid, 
And— the  others  will  follow,  if  they're  not  afraid. 

Eight  fleecy  white  lambkins  yonder  are  seen 
Just  over  the  brook,  in  the  pasture  green, 


If  eight  of  them  leap  over  the  low,  stone  wall, 
Then,  how  manv  lambkins  do  not  jump  at  all? 
(ANSWER.) 

Were  they  Bo-peep's  lambkins,  mamma?  O,  I  know, 
If  one  lamb  leaped  the  wall,  all  the  rest  would  go. 


A  LITTLE  TRAVELER, 


If  out  of  the  water  and  dark  mud  below, 
Rise  ten  water  lilies  as  white  as  the  snow, 
And  five  laddies  row  out  to  gather  the  ten, 
How  many  apiece  have  the  brave  little  men? 

(answer.)  . 
They  would  have  two  apiece,  if  Tom  had  his  way, 
But  Archie'd  have  more— he's  so  mean,  Archie  Gray. 

Suppose  i  am  forty  and  you  are  but  five, 
In  ten  sunny  years — if  we  still  keep  alive — 
Winter  and  summer,  in  all  sorts  of  weather, — 
Pray  how  many  years  can  we  count  together? 

(answer,  counting  slowly.) 
Why,  you  would  be  f-f-fifty  and  I'd  be  f-fifteen. 
There'd  be  ever  so  many  years  between. 
Count  them  together?   Mamma,  wait  till  I  grow 


A  LITTLE  TRAVELER. 

I'm  but  a  little  girl,  you  know — 
I'm  only  five  years  old  or  so— 
And  yet  I  traveled  quite  a  lot 
For  one  so  young,  I  tell  you  what ! 

When  1  get  mad,  and  won't  mind  ma, 
When  I  won't  kiss  my  dear,  kind  pa, 
My  head  is  filled  with  ire,  and 
Of  course,  I  am  in  Ireland. 

When  I  in  the  city  go, 
I  don't  act  like  those  folks,  you  know  ; 
They  say  I'm  "green,"  and  naturally 
I  think  I  must  in  Greenland  be. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  KING. 


5* 


When  I  get  cross  at  Sadie  Trem, 
Or  Billy  Bliff,  or  some  of  them, 
They  say  I  act  so  coldly.  Why, 
No  doubt,  in  Iceland  then  am  I. 

When  mamma  takes  and  nestles  me 
Against  her  breast  so  restfully, 
I  think  I'm  right  in  telling  you 
That  I'm  in  Lapland.    Isn't  that  true  ? 

H.  R.  Maginley. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  KING. 


There  once  was  a  merry  old  monarch 
Who  ruled  in  a  frolicsome  way. 

He  cut  high  jinks  with  the  children, 
And  played  with  them  all  through  the 
day. 

"A  king  always  gets  into  trouble 

When  trying  to  govern,"  he  said, 
"So  nothing  but  marble  and  leap-frog 
And  tennis  shall  bother  my  head.1' 

Ah,  well !  The  wise  people  deposed  him. 
"You  may  govern  the  children,"  said 
they; 

"Why,  that  is  exactly  wh  at  suits  me," 
good-morning.  He  replied,  and  went  on  with  his  play. 


But  it  v/asn't  a  year  till  the  people 
All  wanted  the  king  back  again  ; 

They  had  learned  that  a  ruler  of  children 
Makes  a  pretty  good  ruler  of  men. 


5  2 


THE  PROPER  TIME. 


THE  BOYS  WE  NEED. 

Here's  the  boy  who's  not  afraid 
To  do  his  share  of  work, 

Who  never  is  by  toil  dismayed, 
And  never  tries  to  shirk. 

The  boy  whose  heart  is  brave  to  meet 

All  lions  in  the  way ; 
Who's  not  discouraged  by  defeat, 

But  tries  another  day. 

The  boy  who  always  means  to  do 

The  very  best  he  can  ; 
Who  always  keeps  the  right  in  view, 

And  aims  to  be  a  man. 

Such  boys  as  these  will  grow  to  be 

The  men  whose  hands  will  guide 
The  future  of  our  land;  and  we 

Shall  speak  their  names  with  pride. 

All  honor  to  the  boy  who  is 
A  man  at  heart,  I  say  ; 

Whose  legend  on  his  shield  is  this, 
"  Right  always  wins  the  day." 


THE  PROPER  TIME. 

"Will  you  play  with  me?  Will  you  play  with  me?" 
A  little  girl  said  to  the  birds  on  a  tree. 
"Oh,  we  have  our  nests  to  build,"  said  they: 
"There's  a  time  for  work,  and  a  time  for  play." 


THE  FIRST  RUBBER  BOOTS. 


55 


Then  meeting  a  dog,  she  cried  "Hallo! 
Come  play  with  me,  Jip,  and  do  as  I  do/' 
Said  he,  "1  must  watch  the  orchard  to-day: 
There's  a  time  for  work,  and  a  time  for  play." 

A  boy  she  saw;  and  to  him  she  cried, 
"Come,  play  with  me,  John,  by  the  green- 
wood side. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  John,  "I've  my  lesson  to  say: 
There's  a  time  for  work,  and  a  time  for  play." 

Then  thoughtful  awhile  stood  the  little 
miss, 

And  said,  "It  is  hard,  on  a  day  like  this, 
To  go  to  work;  but,  from  what  they  all 

say, 

Tis  a  time  for  work,  and  not  for  play." 

So  homeward  she  went,  and  took  her  book, 
And  first  at  the  pictures  began  to  look; 
Then  said,  "I  think  I  will  study  to-day: 
There's  a  time  for  work,  and  a  time  for  play." 

Emily  Carter. 

THE  FIRST  RUBBER  BOOTS. 

That  precious  pair  of  rubber  boots, 

So  tall,  so  black,  so  shining! 
They're  just  the  things,  the  very  things, 

For  which  our  Ned's  been  pining. 

And  now  he  calls  them  all  his  own, 

A  happy  thought  comes  o'er  him, 
And  when  he  kneels  to  say  his  prayer? 

He  sets  the  boots  before  him. 


AN  ALPHABET  OF  RIVERS. 


Then  into  bed  our  darling  goes, 
His  treasures  near  him  keeping; 

For  on  the  pillow  one  small  head 
Between  two  boots  is  sleeping. 

Through  snow,  through  slush,  and  in  the  rain, 

O  never  mind  the  weather!— 
The  rubber  boots,  the  little  Ned, 

They  trudge  along  together. 

His  feet  go  dabbling  in  the  brook, 

Just  like  two  little  fishes, 
And  then  he  runs  to  tell  mamma 

The  funniest  of  wishes. 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  puss-tat,  ma, 

Just  like  our  old  gray  Molly, 
Then  I  could  wear  four  rubber  boots, 

Oh,  wouldn't  that  be  jolly!" 


AN  ALPHABET  OF  RIVERS. 

Streams,  the  Names  of  Which  Run  the  Gamut  of  the  Letters. 

A  stands  for  the  Amazon,  mighty  and  grand, 
And  the  B's  Beresina,  on  Muscovy's  strand. 
The  placid  Charles  River  will  fit  for  the  C, 
While  the  beautiful  blue  Danube  is  ready  for  D. 
The  E  is  the  Elbe,  in  Deutschland  far  north, 
And  the  first  F  I  find,  strange  to  say,  is  the  Forth. 
The  great  river  Ganges  can  go  for  the  G, 
And  for  H  our  blue  Hudson  will  certainly  be. 
The  quaint  Irrawaddy  for  I  has  its  claims, 
And  the  J  is  the  limpid  and  beautiful  James. 


HIS  PROFESSION. 

The  K  is  for  Kama,  I  know  in  a  jiffy, 

And  the  L  is  the  Loire  and  the  prosperous  Liffey. 

For  M  we  have  plenty  to  choose  from,  and — well, 

There's  the  noble  Missouri,  the  gentle  Moselle. 

For  N  we  have  Nile,  and  the  Onion  is  O, 

While  for  P  you  can  choose  the  gray  Pruth  or  the  Po. 

The  Q  is  the  Quinebaug,  one  of  our  own, 

But  the  R  comes  to  front  with  the  Rhine  and  the  Rhone. 

For  the  S  there's  the  Shannon,  a  beautiful  stream, 

And  the  T  is  the  Tiber,  where  Rome  reigns  supreme. 

The  Ural,  I  think,  will  with  U  quite  agree, 

And  the  turbulent  Volga  will  fit  for  the  V. 

The  W's  Weser,  and  the  Xeni  is  X 

(You  may  find  it  spelled  with  a  J,  to  perplex). 

Then  for  Y  Yang-tse-kiang  is  simple  and  easy, 

And  to  end  the  long  list  with  a  Z  take  Zambesi. 

"The  Traveler,"  St.  Nicholas. 


HIS  PROFESSION. 

My  boy  and  I  rode  in  a  train 

One  morning  bright  and  clear. 
"When  I'm  a  grown  up  man,"  said  he, 

"  I'll  be  an  engineer." 
But  soon  the  dust  flew  in  his  eyes, 

And  heavy  grew  his  head. 
"  I  wouldn't  be  an  engineer 

For  all  the  world,"  he  said. 

My  boy  was  at  a  seaport  town, 

And  saw  the  rolling  sea. 
"Mamma,"  he  said  one  evening, 

A  sailor  I  shall  be  I" 


THE  CHILD'S  CENTENNIAL. 


We  took  him  to  a  yacht  race — 

He  had  to  go  to  bed  ! 
"  I  wouldn't  be  a  sailor,  now, 

For  all  the  world,"  he  said. 

We  read  him  stirring  stories 

Of  soldiers  and  their  fame. 
"I'll  go  and  fight,"  cried  Freddie, 

"  And  put  them  all  to  shame  T 
We  told  him  of  a  soldier's  life  ; 

He  shook  his  little  head, 
"  I  wouldn't  be  a  soldier,  now, 

For  all  the  world,"  he  said. 

And  thus  to  each  profession 

He  first  said  "yes,"  then  " no." 
"  To  make  a  choice  is  hard,"  he  said, 

"  At  least,  I  find  it  so." 
"  But  what,  then,  will  you  be  ?"  I  asked, 

"When  you  are  grown-up,  Fred  ?" 
"  I  really  think  I'll  only  be 

A  gentleman,"  he  said. 

Dr.  Malcolm  McLeod,  St.  Nicholas. 


THE  CHILD'S  CENTENNIAL. 

Around  the  purple  clover-flowers, 
The  butterflies  were  flitting; 

And  on  a  stone  beside  the  road 
A  little  boy  was  sitting. 

The  fragrant  air  his  yellow  hair 
Around  his  face  was  blowing, 

And  down  his  pretty  rosy  cheeks, 
The  great,  round  tears  were  flowing. 


THE  CHILD'S  CENTENNIAL'. 


His  breeches  were  of  coarse,  brown  cloth; 

His  frock  was  made  of  tow; 
For  little  Ebenezer  lived 

A  hundred  years  ago. 

Along  the  road,  upon  a  horse, 
Two  men  came,  riding  double; 


BUTTERFLY  WEDDING. 


And  one  spoke  out,  "My  pretty  lad, 
Pray  tell  me,  what's  the  trouble?" 

But,  at  his  friendly  words,  the  boy 

Began  to  sob  the  louder: 
"O,  sir,"  said  he,  "my  father  took 

His  gun,  and  horn  of  powder, 


A  CHILD'S  CENTENNIAL. 


"And  rode  away  this  very  morn 
.  To  help  to  fight  the  foe!" 
For  there  was  war  within  the  land 
A  hundred  years  ago. 

The  foremost  man  drew  in  his  rein 
(His  horse  was  somewhat  skittish) 

And  said,  "My  dear,  I  would  not  fear: 
We  hope  to  beat  the  British. 

"And  when  the  Yankees  win  the  day, 

And  send  the  Red-coats  flying, 
And  home  again  your  father  comes, 

You  will  not  feel  like  crying: 

"You'll  be  a  happy  fellow  then." 

"Oh,  that  I  shall,  I  know!" 
Poor  little  Ebenezer  said 

A  hundred  years  ago. 

"But  if  he  should  not  come  at  all, 
And  we  should  find,  instead,  sir, 

A  musket-ball  had  shot  him  down, 
A  sword  cut  off  his  head,  sir?" 

"Oh,  even  then,"  the  man  replied, 
"You'd  proudly  tell  his  story, 

And  say,  'He  died  for  freedom's  sake, 
And  for  his  country's  glory.' 

"But  brave  must  oe  the  little  son 
Whose  father  fights  the  foe: 

We  need  stout  hearts."  And  so  they  did, 
A  hundred  years  ago. 

The  man  rode  on,  and  home  again 
Ran  little  Ebenezer; 


LETTING  THE  OLD  CAT  DIE. 


61 


"Now  I  must  share  my  mother's  care," 
He  said,  "and  try  to  please  her; 

And  I  must  work  in  every  way, — 
Rake  hay,  and  feed  the  cattle, 

And  hoe  the  corn,  since  father's  gone 
To  give  the  British  battle." 

Oh!  looking  backward,  let  us  not 

Forget  the  thanks  we  owe 
To  those  good  little  boys  who  lived 

A  hundred  years  ago  ! 

Marian  Douglas. 


LETTING  THE  OLD  CAT  DIE. 

Not  long  ago  I  wandered  near 

A  playground  in  the  wood  ; 
And  there  heard  words  from  a  youngster's  lips 

That  I  never  quite  understood. 

"  Now  let  the  old  cat  die,"  he  laughed  ; 

I  saw  him  give  a  push, 
Then  gaily  scamper  away  as  he  spied 

A  face  peep  over  the  bush. 

But  what  he  pushed,  or  where  he  went, 

I  could  not  well  make  out, 
On  account  of  the  thicket  of  bending  boughs, 

That  bordered  the  place  about. 

"  The  little  villain  has  stoned  a  cat, 

Or  hung  it  upon  a  limb, 
And  left  it  to  die  alone,"  I  said, 

"But  I'll  play  the  mischief  with  him." 


62 


LETTING  THE  OLD  CAT  DIE. 


I  forced  my  way  between  the  boughs, 

The  poor  old  cat  to  seek ; 
And  what  did  I  find  but  a  swinging  child, 

With  her  bright  hair  brushing  her  cheek. 


IN  THE  SWING- 


LETTING  THE  OLD  CAT  DIE. 


Her  bright  hair  floated  to  and  fro, 

Her  little  red  dress  flashed  by, 
But  the  liveliest  thing  of  all,  I  thought, 

Was  the  gleam  of  her  laughing  eye. 

Swinging  and  swaying  back  and  forth 

With  the  rose-light  in  her  face, 
She  seemed  like  a  bird  and  a  flower  in  one, 

And  the  wood  her  native  place. 

"Steady  !  I'll  send  you  up,  my  child  I1' 

But  she  stopped  me  with  a  cry  : 
"  Go  'way  !  go  'way  I  Don't  touch  me,  please  ; 

I'm  letting  the  old  cat  die  1" 

"  You  letting  him  die  I"  I  cried,  aghast ; 

"  Why,  where  is  the  cat,  my  dear?" 
And  lo !  the  laughter  that  filled  the  woods 

Was  a  thing  for  the  birds  to  hear. 

"Why,  don't  you  Know/'  said  the  little  maid, 

The  flitting,  beautiful  elf, 
"  That  we  call  it  '  letting  the  old  cat  die,1 

When  the  swing  stops  all  by  itself  ?" 

Then  floating  and  swinging,  and  looking  back 

With  merriment  in  her  eye, 
She  bade  me  "good-day,"  and  I  left  her  alone, 

A-letting  the  old  cat  die. 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


64 


A  STORY  FOR  BOYS. 


A  STORY  FOR  BOYS. 

If  you  are  fond  of  cats,  if  you  have  a  dear  little  pussy  of  your  own, 
you  will  like  this  story,  for  it  is  true. 

Phil  was  a  French  lad,  and  his  pet  and  favorite  was  a  white  cat, 
with  a  bushy  tail  and  long  thick  fur.  She 
followed  him  about  the  fields  when  he  went 
to  plow,  and  sat  on  his  knee  by  the  fire- 
side, and  slept  on  his  pillow  at  night. 

But  a  sad  day  came  to  pussy  and  her 
master.  Phil,  who  was  now  a  strong  lad  of 
sixteen,  was  selected  for  a  soldier.  It  was 
at  the  time  when  the  French  and  English 
joined  to  fight  the  Russians  in  the  Crimea. 

"  Farewell "  is  the  hardest  of  words  to  us  all.  Phil's  heart  ached 
sorely  as  he  marched  away  with  his  regiment  for  the  first  time.  But 
a  soldiers  pride  was  stirring  in  his  bosom.  The  roll  of  the  drum  called 
up  exultant  thoughts  of  the  honor  and  glory  his  own  dear  France  was 
sure  to  gain. 

On,  on  they  marched  along  the  dusty  road,  between  the  rows  of 
limes  and  chestnuts,  and  Phil  could  hear  the  beating  of  the  waves  upon 
the  sandy  shore  of  the  bay,  where  the  transport  ships  were  waiting. 

How  many  leagues  already  separated  him  from  his  boyhood's  home! 
His  heart  grew  heavy  at  the  thought,  and  happening  to  turn  his  head 
he  saw  his  snow-white  beauty,  his  cat  of  cats,  drab  with  dust,  and 
panting  with  heat,  watching  the  soldiers  as  they  marched  by.  When 
she  caught  sight  of  her  master's  face  puss  sprang  up  joyously  and  ran 
steadily  by  his  side.  Phil  was  touched  to  think  how  faithfully  and  how 
far  she  had  followed  him.  But  what  was  he  to  do  with  her  ?  He  could 
not  send  her  back  ;  he  could  not  leave  her  by  the  way.  She  would  run 
on  by  his  side  until  her  little  feet  grew  sore  and  weary,  and  her  legs 
dragged  painfully  after  her  master.  Phil  glanced  at  the  stern  sergeant, 
but  he  was  looking  another  way.    He  lifted  up  his  cat  quickly,  and 

16 


A  STORY  FOR  BOYS. 


65 


set  her  on  his  knapsack.  She  clung  to  him,  happy  and  content.  Her 
point  was  gained:  they  were  not  to  be  parted.  Through  all  the  hurry 
and  bustle  of  embarking,  pussy  kept  her  place. 

Whoever  before  heard  of  a  cat  going  to  the  wars  of  her  own  free 
will  ?  The  soldiers  might  well  laugh,  but  no  one  interfered  with  her. 
At  meals  she  munched  a  corner  of  Phil's  ration,  and  at  night  she  slept 
in  his  arms. 

When  the  soldiers  left  the  ships,  and  were  landed  on  Turkish  soil, 
the  weary  march  began  again.  Puss  coiled  herself  up  on  her  master's 
knapsack,  and  journeyed  with  him. 

How  fondly  Phil  loved  his  little  pussy  friend  !  She  grew  more 
precious  every  day,  as  she  shared  and  cheered  the  many  toils  and  dangers 
of  the  young  soldier's  life  ;  sometimes  standing  quiet  by  his  side,  and 
purring  lovingly,  when  the  duties  of  the  day  were  over,  and  her  master 
cooked  such  supper  as  he  could  get  by  the  camp  fires.  For  the  poor 
soldiers  had  often  little  to  eat,  and  many  hardships  to  endure,  before 
they  won  the  battle. 

As  first  he  had  to  work  in  the  trenches  with  pickaxe  and  spade, 
but  when  his  regiment  was  ordered  into  active  service,  and  he  must 
face  the  cannon's  mouth,  he  left  his  puss  with  a  sick  comrade.  The  poor 
sick  fellow  promised  to  take  good  care  of  her. 

The  troops  were  about  a  mile  from  camp,  when  Phil  caught  sight 
of  his  pet  running  steadily  after  him.  He  lifted  her  up  on  her  custom- 
ary seat  on  his  knapsack,  for  the  battle  was  beginning.  The  Russian 
cannon  began  fire,  and  the  thundering  noise  deadened  every  other  sound; 
but  those  little  white  paws  only  clung  the  closer  to  her  soldier's  belt. 
There  was  fighting  all  around  him,  and  men  were  falling.  But  the 
soldiers  closed  their  ranks  and  still  pressed  onward.  Twice  poor  Phil 
went  down,  but  pussy  never  loosed  her  hold.  She  clung  to  his  coat, 
determined  not  to  be  parted  from  the  master  she  loved  so  dearly.  , 

At  last  a  severe  wound  in  the  breast  threw  him  senseless  on  the 
ground.  No  sympathetic  friend  dared  to  stop  during  the  battle 
to  raise  him  up  or  speak  one  pitying  word.    The  thick  cloud  of 


66 


A  STCR.Y  FOR  BOYS. 


smoke  from  the  cannon  on  both  sides  turned  the  daylight  into  dark- 
ness. 

But  a  cat's  keen  eye,  which  can  see  in  the  dimmest  light,  enabled 
the  faithful  puss  to  distinguish  the  dark  stream  of  blood  flowing  from 
her  master's  breast. 

,  With  an  intelligent  comprehension  of  his  danger,  the  devoted  little 
creature  seated  herself  upon  him,  and  began  to  wash  away  the  blood. 
Think  of  the  dreadful  wound  in  the  poor  young  soldier's  breast 


ana  that  little  cat,  with  nothing  but  her  tiny  tongue,  trying  so  hard  to 
close  it.  Remember  how  the  cannon-balls  were  rattling  around  her. 
How  scared  and  terrified  she  must  have  been;  for  we  know  all  animals, 
except  the  trained  war-horse,  fly  in  terror  from  the  battle-field.  But 
the  great  love  that  filled  the  darling  pussy's  heart  was  greater  than  all 


VACATION. 


67 


the  danger.  Her  snowy  fur  was  soaked  in  blood.  Her  tiny  tongue 
was  aching,  as  hour  after  hour  went  by  and  Phil  still  lay  unconscious. 

When  the  conflict  was  over,  the  army  surgeon  came  round  with 
the  ambulance,  to  look  for  the  wounded,  and  there  he  found  them. 

Poor  Phil  was  carried  back  to  the  hospital.  His  wound  was  bound 
up  and  he  slowly  revived. 

"Shall  I  live?"  were  the  first  words  that  passed  his  lips,  as  he 
looked  into  the  surgeons  face. 

44  Yes,  my  good  fellow,  thanks  to  your  little  cat;  if  she  had  not 
used  her  tongue  so  intelligently  you  would  have  bled  to  death,"  was 
the  reply. 

A  soft,  low  purr  in  his  ear  sounded  sweetly  to  the  grateful  lad; 
and  many  a  worn,  white  face  was  lifted  from  the  beds  around  him  to 
look  at  his  pussy. 

Through  all  the  faintness  occasioned  by  the  loss  of  blood,  through 
all  the  burning  fever  brought  on  by  the  wound  in  his  breast,  Phil  never 
ceased  to  ask  that  his  cat  might  stay  with  him. 

It  was  contrary  to  all  hospital  rules,  but  the  officer  said: 

"Yes,  let  her  stay." 

The  little  creature's  devoted  love  won  all  hearts.  She  was  sent 
with  her  master  to  the  regular  hospital.  She  was  fed  with  the  choicest 
morsels  from  his  plate.  She  was  petted  by  all  around  her;  and  was 
pointed  out  with  proud  admiration  to  every  new-comer. 


VACATION. 

Vacation  is  coming, 

We  all  will  be  gay, 
We  leave  our  worn  school  books 

For  sport  and  for  play. 


68 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 


We'll  off  to  the  country, 
To  visit  our  friends, 

And  spend  our  time  finely, 
Till  vacation  ends. 


And  then  to  our  studies 
We'll  cheerfully  'tend, 

Performing  our  duties, 
Thus  please  our  dear  friends. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour 


A  MERRY  DANCE. 


69 


7o 


FATHER  AT  PLAY. 


FATHER  AT  PLAY. 

Such  fun  as  we  had  one  rainy  day, 
When  father  was  home  and  helped 
us  play, 

And  made  a  ship  and  hoisted  sail, 
And  crossed  the  sea  in  a  fearful 
gale! 

But  we  hadn't  sailed  into  London 
town, 

When  the  captain  and  crew,  and 
vessel  went  down, 
Down,  down  in  a  jolly  wreck, 
With  the  captain  rolling  under  the  deck. 

But  he  broke  out  again  with  a  lion's  roar, 
And  we  on  two  legs,  he  on  four, 
Ran  out  of  the  parlor  and  up  the  stair, 
And  frightened  mamma  and  the  baby  there. 

So  mamma  said  she  would  be  p'lice- 
man  now, 

And  tried  to  'rest  us.  She  didn't  know 
how. 

Then  the  lion  laughed,  and  forgot  to 
roar, 

Till  we  chased  him  out  of  the  nursery 
door; 

And  then  he  turned  to  a  pony  gay, 
And  carried  us  all  on  his  back  away. 
Whippsty,  Iickity,  kickity,  ho ! 
If  we  hadn't  fun,  then  I  don't  know. 


THE  RABBIT  ON  THE  WALL. 


TRUE  LOVE. 

'  How  much  I  love  you,  mother  dear  I" 

A  little  prattler  said  : 
'  I  love  you  in  the  morning  bright, 

And  when  I  go  to  bed. 

"  I  love  you  when  I'm  near  to  you, 

And  when  I'm  far  away  : 
I  love  you  when  I  am  at  work, 
And  when  I  am  at  play.7' 

And  then  she  slily,  sweetly  raised 

Her  lovely  eyes  of  blue  : 
"  I  love  you  when  you  love  me  best, 
And  when  you  scold  me,  too." 

The  mother  kissed  her  darling  child, 

And  stooped  a  tear  to  hide  : 
"  My  precious  one,  I  love  you  most 
When  I  am  forced  to  chide. 

"I  could  not  let  my  darling  child 

In  sin  and  folly  go, 
And  this  is  why  I  sometimes  chide, 

Because  I  love  you  so." 


THE  RABBIT  ON  THE  WALL. 

The  cottage  work  is  over, 
The  evening  meal  is  done  ; 

Hark  !  through  the  starlit  stillness 
You  hear  the  river  run  ; 


THE  RABBIT  ON  THE  WALL 


The  cotter's  children  whisper, 
Then  speak  out  one  and  all , 

"  Come,  father,  make  for  Johnny 
A  rabbit  on  the  wall." 

He  smilingly  assenting, 

They  gather  round  his  chair  : 
"  Now,  grandma,  you  hold  Johnny ; 

Don't  let  the  candle  flare." 
So  speaking,  from  his  fingers 

He  throws  a  shadow  tall, 
That  seems  the  moment  after 

A  rabbit  on  the  wall. 

The  children  shout  with  laughter, 

The  uproar  louder  grows, 
E'en  grandma  chuckles  faintly, 

And  Johnny  chirps  and  crows. 
There  ne'er  was  gilded  painting 

Hung  up  in  lordly  hall, 
Gave  half  the  simple  pleasure, 

As  this  rabbit  on  the  wall. 

Ah  I  who  does  not  remember 

When  humble  sports  like  these 
Than  many  a  costlier  pastime, 

Had  greater  power  to  please  ? 
When  o'er  life's  autumn  pathway, 

The  sere  leaves  thickly  fall, 
How  oft  we  sigh,  recalling 

The  rabbit  on  the  wall. 


"LITTLE  CHILDREN,  LOVE  ONE  ANOTHER/' 


73 


"LITTLE  CHILDREN,  LOVE  ONE  ANOTHER/ 

A  little  girl,  with  a  happy  look, 

Sat  slowly  reading  in  a  ponderous  book 

All  bound  with  velvet,  and  edged  with  gold, 

And  its  weight  was  more  than  the  child  could  hold; 

Yet  dearly  she  loved  to  ponder  it  o'er, 

And  every  day  she  prized  it  more; 

For  it  said — and  she  looked  at  her  smning  mother — 

It  said,  "Little  children,  love  one  another/' 

She  thought  it  was  beautiful  in  the  book, 

And  the  lesson  home  to  her  heart  she 
took; 

She  walked  on  her  way  with  a  trust- 
ing grace, 
And  a  dove-like  look  in  her  meek 

young  face, 
Which  said,  just  as  plain  as  words 

could  say, 
"The  Holy  Bible  I  must  obey; 
So,  mamma,  Til  be  kind  to  my  dar- 
ling brother, 
For* Little  children  must  love  each 
other.' 

"I'm  sorry  he's  naughty,  and  will  not  play; 
But  I'll  love  him  still,  for  I  think  the  way 
To  make  him  gentle  and  kind  to  me 
Will  be  better  shown  if  I  let  him  see 
1  strive  to  do  what  I  think  is  right; 
And  thus,  when  I  kneel  in  prayer  to-night, 
I  will  clasp  my  hands  around  my  brother, 
And  say,  'Little  children  love  one  another." 


NEVER  OUT  OF  SIGHT. 


The  little  girl  did  as  her  Bible  taught, 

And  pleasant  indeed  was  the  change  it  wrought; 

For  the  boy  looked  up  in  glad  surprise, 

To  meet  the  light  of  her  loving  eyes: 

His  heart  was  full,  he  could  not  speak, 

But  he  pressed  a  kiss  on  his  sister's  cheek; 

And  God  looked  down  on  that  happy  mother 

Whose  little  children  loved  each  other. 


NEVER  OUT  OF  SIGHT. 

I  know  a  little  saying, 

That  is  altogether  true  ; 
My  little  boy,  my  little  girl, 

The  saying  is  for  you. 
Tis  this,  O  blue  and  black  eyes, 

And  gray — so  deep  and  bright — 
No  child  in  all  this  careless  world 

Is  ever  out  of  sight. 


No  matter  whether  fields  or  glen, 

Or  city's  crowded  way, 
Or  pleasure's  laugh  or  labor's  hum, 

Entice  your  feet  to  stay, 
Some  one  is  always  watching  you  ; 

And,  whether  wrong  or  right, 
No  child  in  all  this  busy  world 

Is  ever  out  of  sight. 


LITTLE  THINGS. 


Some  one  is  always  watching  you  ; 

And  marking  what  you  do, 
To  see  if  all  your  childhood's  acts 

Are  honest,  brave,  and  true  ; 
And,  watchful  more  than  mortal  kind, 

God's  angels  pure  and  white, 
In  gladness  and  in  sorrowing, 

Are  keeping  you  in  sight. 

O,  bear  in  mind,  my  little  one, 

And  let  your  mark  be  high  ! 
You  do  whatever  thing  you  do, 

Beneath  some  seeing  eye. 
O,  bear  in  mind,  my  little  ones, 

And  keep  your  good  name  bright, 
No  child  upon  this  round,  round  earth 

Is  ever  out  of  sight. 


LITTLE  THINGS. 

A  cup  of  water  timely  brought, 

An  offered  easy  chair, 
A  turning  of  the  window-blind, 

That  all  may  feel  the  air ; 
An  early  flower  bestowed  unasked, 

A  light  and  cautious  tread, 
A  voice  to  softest  whispers  hushed 

To  spare  an  aching  head — 
Oh,  things  like  these,  though  little  things, 

The  purest  love  disclose, 
As  fragrant  atoms  in  the  air 
Reveal  the  hidden  rose. 


76 


PUSSY'S  CLASS. 


PERSEVERANCE. 

The  boy  who  does  a  stroke,  and  stops 
Will  ne'er  a  great  man  be  ; 
Tis  the  aggregate  of  single  drops 
That  makes  the  sea  the  sea. 

Not  all  at  once  the  morning  streams 

Its  gold  above  the  gray, 
It  takes  a  thousand  little  beams 

To  make  the  day  the  day. 

The  farmer  needs  must  sow  and  till, 

And  wait  the  wheaten  head, 
Then  cradle,  thresh,  and  go  to  mill, 

Before  his  bread  is  bread. 

Swift  heels  may  get  the  early  shout, 
But,  spite  of  all  the  din, 

It  is  the  patient  holding  out 
That  makes  the  winner  win. 


PUSSY'S  CLASS. 

"Now,  children/'  said  Puss,  as  she  shook  her  head, 
"It  is  time  your  morning  lesson  was  said." 
So  her  kittens  drew  near  with  footsteps  slow, 
And  sat  down  before  her,  all  in  a  row. 

"Attention,  class!"  said  the  cat-mamma, 
"And  tell  me  quick  where  your  noses  are/' 
At  this  all  the  kittens  sniffed  the  air 
As  though  it  were  filled  with  a  perfume  rare. 


PUSSY'S  CLASS. 


77 


"  Now  what  do  you  say  when  you  want  a  drink?" 
The  kittens  waited  a  moment  to  think, 
And  then  the  answer  came  clear  and  loud — 
You  ought  to  have  heard  how  those  kittens  meowed! 

"  Very  well.  Tis  the  same,  with  a  sharper  tone, 
When  you  want  a  fish  or  bit  of  bone; 
Now  what  do  you  say  when  children  are  good?" 
And  the  kittens  purred  as  soft  as  they  could. 

"And  what  do  you  do  when  children  are  bad — 
When  they  tease  and  pull?"  Each  kitty  looked  sad. 
"Pooh!"  said  their  mother,  "that  isn't  enough; 
You  must  use  your  claws  when  children  are  rough. 

"And  where  are  your  claws?  no,  no  my  dear 

(As  she  took  up  a  paw).  See!  they're  hidden  here;" 

Then  all  the  kittens  crowded  about 

To  see  their  sharp  little  claws  brought  out. 

They  felt  quite  sure  they  should  never  need 
To  use  such  weapons — oh,  no,  indeed! 
But  the  wise  mamma  gave  a  pussy's  "Pshaw!" 
And  boxed  their  ears  with  her  softest  paw. 

"Now,  'Sptissf  as  hard  as  you  can,"  she  said; 

But  every  kitten  hung  down  its  head; 

"  'Sptissf  I  say,"  cried  the  mother  cat, 

But  they  said,  "Oh,  mammy,  we  can't  do  that! " 

"Then  go  and  play,"  said  the  fond  mamma; 
"What  sweet  little  idiots  kittens  are! 
Ah  well!  I  was  once  the  same,  I  suppose," 
And  she  looked  very  wise  and  rubbed  her  nose. 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


SEl/EN  TIMES  ONE. 

SEVEN  TIMES  ONE. 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover, 

There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven: 
I've  said  my  ''seven  times"  over  and  over, 

Seven  times  one  are  seven. 


SEVEN  TIMES  ONE 


I  am  old,  so  old  I  can  write  a  letter; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done; 
The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no  better; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 


79 


O,  moon,  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 

And  shining  so  round  and  low; 
You  were  bright — ah  bright!  but  your  light  is  failing; 

You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  moon,  have  you  done  something  wrong  in  heaven, 

That  God  has  hidden  your  face? 
I  hope  if  you  have,  you  will  soon  be  forgiven, 

And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

O,  velvet  bee,  youVe  a  dusty  fellow, 

You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold! 
O,  brave  marshmary  buds,  rich  and  yellow, 

Give  me  your  money  to  hold. 

O,  columbine,  open  your  folded  wrapper, 

Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell! 
O,  cuckoo-pint,  toll  me  the  purple  clapper 

That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell. 

And  show  me  the  nests  with  the  young  ones  in  it; 

I  will  not  steal  them  away: 
I  am  old!  You  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet, 

I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 

Jean  Ingelow. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 
"  Good  night  I"  said  the  plow  to  the  weary  old  horse  ; 

And  Dobbin  responded,  "  Good-night f 
Then,  with  Tom  on  his  back,  to  the  farm-house  he  turned, 

With  a  feeling  of  quiet  delight. 

"Good-night !"  said  the  ox,  with  a  comical  bow, 

As  he  turned  from  the  heavy  old  cart, 
Which  laughed  till  it  shook  a  round  wheel  from  its  side, 

Then  creaked  out,  "Good-night,  from  my  heart  !" 


So 


TWO  LITTLE  GIRLS. 


'*  Good-night  I"  said  the  hen,  when  her  supper  was  done, 

To  Fanny,  who  stood  in  the  door ; 
"Good-night  1"  answered  Fanny  ;  "come  back  in  the  mora 

And  you  and  your  chicks  shall  have  more." 

"Quack,  quack !"  said  the  duck,  "  I  wish  you  all  well- 
Though  1  cannot  tell  what  is  polite." 

"  The  will  for  the  deed/'  answered  Benny  the  brave  ; 
"Good-night,  Madam  Ducky,  good-night  I" 


TWO  LITTLE  GIRLS. 
I  know  a  little  girl 
(You?   O,  no!) 
Who,  when  she's  asked  to  go  to  bed, 

Does  just  so  : 
She  brings  a  dozen  wrinkles  out, 
And  takes  the  dimples  in  ; 
She  puckers  up  her  pretty  lips, 

And  then  she  does  begin  : 
"Oh,  dear  me  !    I  don't  see  why- 
All  the  others  sit  up  late, 
And  why  can't  I  ?" 

Another  little  girl  I  know, 

With  curly  pate, 
Who  says  :  "When  I'm  a  great  big  girl, 
I'll  sit  up  late  ; 

But  mamma  says  'twill  make  me  grow 

To  be  an  early  bird." 
So  she  and  dolly  trot  away 

Without  another  word. 
Oh,  the  sunny  smile  and  the  eyes  so  blue  1 
And — and— why,  yes,  now  I  think  of  it, 
She  looks  like  you  ! 


THE  CHILDREN'S  BEDTIME. 


Si 


BE  ACTIVE. 


Be  active,  be  active,  find  something  to  do 
In  digging  a  clam-bank  or  tapping  a  shoe, 
Don't  stop  at  the  corner  to  drag  out  the  day, 
Be  active,  be  active,  and  work  while  you 
may. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  BEDTIME. 

The  clock  strikes  seven  in  the  hall, 
The  curfew  of  the  children's  day, 
That  calls  each  little  pattering  foot 

From  dance  and  song  and  lively  play; 
Their  day  that  in  a  wider  light 
Floats  like  a  silver  day-moon  white, 
Nor  in  our  darkness  sinks  to  rest, 
But  sets  within  a  golden  west. 

Ah,  tender  hour  that  sends  a  drift 

Of  children's  kisses  through  the  house, 
And  cuckoo  notes  of  sweet  "Good  night," 

That  thoughts  of  heaven  and  home  arouse 
And  a  soft  stir  to  sense  and  heart, 
As  when  the  bee  and  blossoms  part; 
And  little  feet  that  patter  slower, 
Like  the  last  droppings  of  a  shower. 


$2 


THE  CHILDREN'S  BEDTIME. 


And  in  the  children's  room  aloft, 
What  blossom  shapes  do  gaily  slip 

Their  daily  sheaths,  and  rosy  run 
From  clasping  hand  and  kissing  lip, 

A  naked  sweetness  to  the  eye — 

Blossoms  and  babe  and  butterfly 

In  witching  one,  so  dear  a  sight! 

An  ecstacy  of  life  and  light. 

Then  lily-drest,  in  angel  white, 

To  mother's  knee  they  trooping  come. 
The  soft  palms  fold  like  kissing  shells, 
And  they  and  we  go  singing  home — 
Their  bright  heads  bowed  and  worshiping, 
As  though  some  glory  of  the  spring, 
Some  daffodil  that  mocks  the  day, 
Should  fold  his  golden  palms  and  pray. 

The  gates  of  paradise  swing  wide 

A  moment's  space  in  soft  accord, 
And  those  dread  angels,  Life  and  Death, 

A  moment  veil  the  flaming  sword, 
As  o'er  this  weary  world  forlorn 
From  Eden's  secret  heart  is  borne 
That  breath  of  Paradise  most  fair, 
Which  mothers  call  "the  children's  prayer." 

Then  kissed,  on  beds  we  lay  them  down, 

As  fragrant  white  as  clover'd  sod, 
And  all  the  upper  floors  grow  hushed 

With  children's  sleep,  and  dews  of  God. 
And  as  our  stars  their  beams  do  hide, 
The  stars  of  twilight,  opening  wide, 
Take  up  the  heavenly  tale  at  even, 
And  light  us  on  to  God  and  heaven. 


the  um 

of  m 

URIVER^ITY  OF 


MOTHER  KNOWS, 


MOTHER  KNOWS. 

Nobody  knows  of  the  work  it  makes 
To  keep  the  home  together  ; 

Nobody  knows  of  the  steps  it  takes, 
Nobody  knows — but  mother. 


Nobody  listens  to  childish  woes 
Which  kisses  only  smother ; 

Nobody's  pained  by  naughty  blows, 
Nobody— only  mother. 


BE  CAREFUL  WHAT  YOU  SAY, 

Nobody  knows  of  the  sleepless  care 

Bestowed  on  baby  brother  ; 
Nobody  knows  of  the  tender  pray'r, 

Nobody— only  mother. 

Nobody  knows  of  the  lessons  taught 

Of  loving  one  another  ; 
Nobody  knows  of  the  patience  sought, 

Nobody— only  mother. 

Nobody  knows  of  the  anxious  fears 

Lest  darlings  may  not  weather 
The  storm  of  life  in  after  years  ; 

Nobody  knows — but  mother. 

H.  C.  Dodge. 


BE  CAREFUL  WHAT  YOU  SAY. 

In  speaking  of  a  person's  faults, 

Pray  don't  forget  your  own; 
Remember  those  in  houses,  glass, 

Should  never  throw  a  stone. 
If  we  have  nothing  else  to  do 

But  talk  of  those  in  sin, 
Tis  better  we  commence  at  home, 

And  from  that  point  begin. 

We  have  no  right  to  judge  a  man, 

Until  he's  fairly  tried; 
Should  we  not  like  his  company, 

We  know  the  world  is  wide. 
Some  may  have  faults — and  who  has  not? 

The  old  as  well  as  young; 
We  may,  perhaps,  for  aught  we  know, 
Have  fifty  to  their  one. 


THE  TWO  FRIENDS. 


87 


I'll  tell  you  of  a  better  plan, 

And  find  it  works  full  well; 
To  try  my  own  defects  to  cure, 

Before  of  others  tell; 
And  though  I  sometimes  hope  to  be 

No  worse  than  some  I  know, 
My  own  shortcomings  bid  me  let 

The  faults  of  others  go. 

Then  let  us  all  when  we  commence 

To  slander  friend  and  foe, 
Think  of  the  harm  one  word  may  do, 

To  those  we  little  know; 
Remember  curses,  sometimes,  like 

Our  chickens,  "roost  at  home;" 
Don't  speak  of  other's  faults  until 

We  have  none  of  our  own. 


THE  TWO  FRIENDS. 

My  dog  and  I  are  faithful  friends; 

We  read  and  play  together; 
We  tramp  across  the  hills  and  fields, 

When  it  is  pleasant  weather. 

And  when  from  school  with  eager  haste 

I  come  along  the  street, 
He  hurries  on  with  bounding  step, 

My  glad  return  to  greet. 

Then  how  he  frisks  along  the  road, 

And  jumps  up  in  my  face! 
And  if  I  let  him  steal  a  kiss, 

I'm  sure  it's  no  disgrace. 


\ 

1 


88 


THE  TWO  FRIENDS. 


Oh,  had  he  but  the  gift  of  speech 

But  for  a  single  day, 
How  dearly  should  1  like  to  hear 

The  funny  things  he'd  sayl 

Yet,  though  he  cannot  say  a  word 
As  human  beings  can, 


He  knows  and  thinks  as  much  as  I, 
Or  much  as  any  man. 

And  what  he  knows,  and  thinks,  and  feels, 

Is  written  in  his  eye; 
My  faithful  dog  cannot  deceive, 

And  never  told  a  lie. 


\ 


THE  LAZY  BOY. 


89 


Come  here,  good  fellow,  while  I  read 

What  other  dogs  can  do; 
And  if  I  live  when  you  have  gone, 

I'll  write  your  history  too. 

Susan  Jewett. 


THE  LAZY  BOY. 


The  lazy  lad  !  and  what's  his  name  ? 

I  should  not  like  to  tell ; 
But  don't  you  think  it  is  a  shame 

That  he  can't  read  nor  spell  ? 


He'd  rather  swing  upon  a  gate, 

Or  paddle  in  the  brook, 
Than  take  his  pencil  and  his  slate, 

Or  try  to  con  his  book* 

There  !  see  he's  lounging  down  the 
street, 

His  hat  without  a  rim  ; 
He  rather  drags  than  lifts  his  feet- 

His  face  unwashed  and  grim. 


He's  lolling  now  against  a  post, 

But  if  you've  seen  him  once, 
You'll  know  the  lad  amongst  a  host ; 

For  what  he  is — a  dunce. 

Don't  ask  me  what's  the  urchin's  name, — 

I  do  not  choose  to  tell ; 
But  this  you'll  know — it  is  the  same 

As  his  who  does  not  blush  for  shame  that  he  don't' 
read  or  spell. 


THE  CASTLE  BUILDERS. 

A  SHOCKING  TEASE. 

HE. 

"Oh,  dear!  that  aggravating  cat, 

She  drives  me  nearly  crazy; 
She  steals  my  bon^s  when  I'm  asleep, 
And  laughs  and  calls  me  lazy! 

"My  appetite's  not  what  it  was; 

I'm  daily  growing  thinner, 
Because,  you  see,  the  worry's  such, 
I  can't  enjoy  my  dinner! 

"If  I  could  only  bite  her  well 

'Twould  be  a  different  matter! 
But,  oh,  she's  such  a  nimble  thing 
A  fellow  can't  get  at  her!" 

SHE. 

"You  poor  old  Toby,  good  old  dog, 

You  don't  know  how  I  love  you! 
You  little  thought  that  tiresome  cat 

Was  listening  just  above  you." 


THE  CASTLE  BUILDERS. 

Building  castles  all  the  day, 
Are  you  never  weary,  say? 

Though  the  sun  is  sinking  fast, 
Still  another!    This  the  last? 

Build  it  strong,  and  build  it  steep, 
Print  the  doors  and  windows  deep, 

Border  it  with  stones  of  white, 
Trees  and  flowers  of  seaweed  bright 


9i 


SUMMER  THOUGHTS. 


the  imm 

UKlVEB^tlY  Of  liS 


MAKING  MUD-PIES. 


When  it  rises  proud  and  high, 
From  the  top  a  flag  shall  fly — 

Stay;  what  need  for  all  this  pains, 
When  to-morrow  nought  remains? 

Hear  the  wild  waves  what  they  sing, 
"  Whether  at  your  work  or  play, 
Little  people,  come  what  may, 
Always  do  your  best  1" 

Ellis  Walton. 


MAKING  MUD-PIES. 

Under  the  apple  tree,  spreading  and  thick, 
Happy  with  only  a  pan  and  a  stick, 
On  the  soft  grass  in  the  shadow  that  lies, 
Our  little  Fanny  is  making  mud-pies. 

On  her  brown  apron  and  bright  drooping  head 
Showers  of  pink  and  white  blossoms  are  shed; 
Tied  to  a  branch  that  seems  meant  just  for  that, 
Dances  and  flutters  her  little  straw  hat. 

Dash,  full  of  joy  in  the  bright  summer  day, 
Zealously  chases  the  robins  away, 
Barks  at  the  squirrels,  or  snaps  at  the  flies, 
All  the  while  Fanny  is  making  mud  pies. 

Sunshine  and  soft  summer  breezes  astir, 
While  she  is  busy,  are  busy  with  her; 
Cheeks  rosy  glowing  and  bright  sparkling  eyes 
Bring  they  to  Fanny,  while  making  mud-pies. 

Dollies  and  playthings  are  all  laid  away, 
Not  to  come  out  till  the  next  rainy  day; 
Under  the  blue  of  these  sweet  summer  skies 
Nothing's  so  pleasant  as  making  mud-pies. 


NOVEMBER. 


Gravely  she  stirs,  with  a  serious  look 
"Making  believe"  she's  a  true  pastry  cook; 
Sundry  brown  splashes  on  forehead  and  eyes 
Show  that  our  Fanny  is  making  mud-pies. 

But  all  the  soil  of  her  innocent  play 

Soap  and  clean  water  will  soon  wash  away; 

Many  a  pleasure  in  daintier  guise 

Leaves  darker  traces  than  Fanny's  mud-pies. 


NOVEMBER. 

Oh!  dear  old  dull  November, 

They  don't  speak  well  of  you, 
They  say  your  winds  are  chilling, 

Your  skies  are  seldom  blue. 
They  tell  how  you  go  sighing 

Along  the  leafless  trees, 
You  have  no  warmth  or  brightness — 

All  kinds  of  things  like  these. 

But  dearie  me!  November, 

They  quite  forgot  to  speak 
About  the  wealth  of  color 

On  each  round  apple's  cheek. 
How  yellow  is  each  pumpkin 

That  in  the  meadow  lies, 
Almost  as  good  as  sunshine, 

And  better  still  for  pies. 

Why,  yes,  dear  old  November, 
You've  lots  of  pleasant  things; 

All  through  the  month  we're  longing 
To  taste  your  turkey  wings  I 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED. 


95 


What  if  you're  dull  a  trifle 

Or  just  a  little  gray, 
If  not  for  you  we'd  never  have 

Dear  old  Thanksgiving  Day. 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED. 

The  other  sheep  have  all  gone  on, 
The  sheep  boy  never  looks  behind  ; 

And  here  you  sit,  so  tired  and  wan, 
Poor  thing,  with  none  to  care  or  mind. 

You  don't  quite  like  the  dusty  road, 
And  all  the  busy  fold  that  pass  ; 

You're  thinking  of  some  stream  that  flowed 
So  cool  and  fresh,  through  meadow  grass. 

Look  here,  then —  see,  I've  come  to  bring 
A  draught  of  water,  sweet  and  clear 

(It  really  is  a  handy  thing, 
That  drinking-fountain  just  near  here). 

Pm  glad  I  had  my  Sunday  hat, 
The  other  one  would  never  do  ; 

There  is  no  crown  at  all  to  that, 
This  only  lets  a  little  through ! 

I  know  of  such  a  lovely  place 

Beyond  the  town,  where  meadows  lie ; 
And  when  you're  ready  for  a  race, 

We'll  go  and  find  it,  you  and  I. 

There's  no  one  there  that  can  annoy, 
Or  see  my  shoes  so  old  and  worn, 


96 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED. 


Or  call  me  "  little  beggar  boy/' 
And  point  to  where  my  coat  is  torn. 

I'll  be  your  shepherd  kind  and  true, 
And  never  let  you  go  astray ; 

I'll  whistle  merry  tunes  to  you, 
You'll  nibble  at  the  grass  all  day. 


N 


«  LOOK  HERE,  THEN— SEE,  I'VE  COME  TO  BRING  A  DRAUGHT  OF  WATER,  SWWET  AND  CLEAR.* 

And  when  the  night  comes  down  in  peace, 

And  stars  are  peeping  from  the  sky, 
My  head  upon  your  soft,  soft  fleece — 

We'll  rest  together,  you  and  I. 

Ellis  Walton. 


<Wen  pie/  Ayw'mute^g^o^9. 

"j*f^  ja^tp^  no  ^uif  noi^Tffoap 

J\f°p  ^pice  nop  Jug<^  ia  if. 


^^Ani  \*>oUn6   \\  bail}'  ifve  oven 


$  pic^  wcpc  vepy    tpiyw  '^a6  ae^T5*8 
^/vn6   useful,  too,  ^t\6  goo^  pie^  ; 
l^^,,se  Jf^e^o  be/oi»e  uy  oa  ifve  ^tpeef 
*^3ut  ifte^>  wew  never® yvvedorvl:  to  , 


8^1^    T°  ywou.l<5^   Ke  f>pz$$e6  if 


,   /Y°u>ve  lcen-  ^  pie^  >vo£tevepv>  <5&y 


For  tlie  Co 


ffanv  Mouov-Order  Tost- 
tlu'  "nioat'v  cannot  be  re- 
s  are  issued.  Subscribers 
,  must  do  so  at  their  own 

i  e  required  after  the  receipt 
he  date  opposite  your  name 
ws  to  what  time  "your  sub- 

fcteanged. 

mber  that  the  publishers 
*r  when  a  subscriber  wishes 

frrearages  must  be  paid, 
will  nol  enable  us  to  dis- 

Ut  find  your  name  on  our 

bflfoe  address  is  given. 

[  of  the  Post-office  to  which 
iir  name  cannot  be  found  on 

done. 

that  all  subscribers  to  news- 
ible  until  arrearages  are  paid 
lered  to  be  discontinued. 
_-s  should  be  addressed  to 
N  &  COMPANY, 
t's  Companion,  Boston,  Mass. 


[QKE  A  COLD. 

{billed,  or  takes  cold,  the 
Ittle  sweat  glands  are  sud- 
jpurities  which  should  pass 
[forced  back  to  the  interior 

ie  blood  and  putting  extra 

.her  internal  organs. 

.ce  of  the  skin,  all  over  the 

I  of  minute  blood-vessels, 
.   When  one  is  chilled,  the 

.  I  capillary  vessels  into  one 
organs,  producing  inflam- 
fjhus  often  causing  diseases 

Sis  at  the  earliest  possible 
■ken  it.  And  your  prime 
If  the  perspiration  and  the 

j$ -  o'u-i'-iiut  you  haver  taken 
Put  your 
"'  Ccmtajning 
, :  '.    Have  it  in  a  vessel  so 
!'  tome  up  well  toward  the 
■  -er  the  whole  to  prevent 
§  ing.    In  from  live  to  ten 
I   wipe  them  dry,  and  get 
-M,  re  two  extra  blankets. 
W  'ig  into  bed,  drink  a  large 
is  possible,  or  a  glass  of 
I    (aspoonful  of   cream  of 
M!  desired. 

II  the  chest,  side  or  back, 
I&jnonia,  dip  a  small  towel 
Rf  as  dry  as  possible.  Fold 
mk/er  a  little  more  surface 

Cover  this  with  a  piere 
Billed  silk,  or  better,  with 
H  ip  of  flannel  a  foot  wide 

warm  the  towel  almost 
n  and  flannel  will  retain 
,  steaming  the  part,  will 

■disappear. 

M  .reness  in  the  throat  you 
•  manner  with  wet  com- 

iple  food.  Baked  apples 
butter,  bread  and  milk, 
or  raw  oysters  may  be 


directions  intelligently 
narily  check  the  progress 
.  serious,  possibly  fatal, 


objects,  such  as  trees, 
in  p<  -iks,  is  said  to  have 
jman  rel'/i'in. 

•'•".bin  ♦<)  this  priry' 


the  young  trees, 

vvnue  me  Old  wagon  rolled  along  like  the  grounding 
of  a  wrecked  balloon.  When  evening  came,  after 
such  experiences,  I  felt  as  though  1  had  been  mob- 
bed and  hustled  at  an  election. 

At  the  crossing  of  any  of  the  large  river-beds, 
indexed  John's  aid  became  indispensable  He  could 
Sack  the  whip  and  make  a  report  like  an  Armstrong 
sKpo  der;  while  his  shouts  and  fiendish  yells 
Snded  wildly  through  the  rocks  in  such  a  manner 
that  even  the  hoarse  roar  of  a  fog-horn,  or  the  shrill 
shriek ■of  a  steam-whistle  would  have  had  no  chance 
against  him. 

AFTER  HER  YOUNG. 

A  naturalist  contributes  to  Nature,  from  the 
Island  of  Crete,  a  paragraph  relating  to  one  of  the 
most  interesting  aspects  of  bird  life.  A  gardener 
caught  a  young  but  fully  fledged  sparrow,  which  he 
carried  to  the  house  of  a  friend  three  miles  away. 
He  left  home  early  in  the  morning. 

He  presented  the  bird  to  one  of  the  children  and 
it  wa?  put  into  a  cage  and  hung  at  the  window 
where  it  seemed  likely  to  be  contented,  losing  its 

f,^1nethV^teZon  an  old  bird  was  noticed 
fluttering  about  the  cage,  apparently  trying  to  get  at 
the  little  one,  and  thl  young  bird  at  once  became 

frThe° oidgbi,°dUtwas  evidently  the  mother  of  the 
voungone-  the  recognition  between  them  was  too 
lo  dill  ?o' leave  any  doubt  upon  that  punt:  and 
when  the  girl  opened  the  cage,  as  she  did  after  a 
little  they  both  flew  off  rapidly  in  the  direction  of 
l  e  place  "from  which  the  little  one  had  been  brought 
Itwas  believed  impossible  that  the  old  bird  should 
have  followed  the  gardener,  as  in  that  case  it  would 
have  been  seen  earlier  in  the  day. 


Every  family  requires  the  very  best  appliances  ob- 
tainable for  heating  the  home  and  cooking  the  food. 
Health  and  true  economy  demand  it.  Examine  our 
latest  productions,  or  send  for  illustrated  circulars. 

We  guarantee  them  to  give  perfect  satisfaction  in 
everv  particular,  and  to  be  positively  unequalled  for 
economy,  durability  and  general  convenience 


For  Sale  by  our  Agents  Everywhere 


make  it  easy  io~tr 
you  live  1000  mil* 
Write  us,  menti 

IVERS  &  P 

181  Tre 


EXPRESSIVE. 

The  Boston  Budget  reports  an  anecdote  of  a  little 
girl  who  is  very  fond  of  walking  with  her  father. 
One  day  he  went  further  than  usual,  and  she  began 
to  grow  tired. 

She  did  her  utmost  to  conceal  the  fact,  lest  it 
should  make  her  father  indisposed  to  take  bei  with 
him  on  future  occasions.  At  last  her  lagging  steps 
Betfayea  her  to  her  father's  watchful  eye. 

Even  /hen,  however,  she  parried  his  questions  and 
could  not  be  brought  to  admit  her  weariness,  till  he 
drew  her  into  a  trap.  ,  *  ,,  mD  j„ct 

"Well,  Lillie,  if  you  don't  feel  tired,  tell  me  just 
how  you  do  feel."  ,  ,  , 

"Oh,  I'm  not  much  tired,  papa,    answer  a  t  i 
diplomatic  little  girl;  "but  I  feel  as  if  I  should  like 
to  take  my  legs  off  and  carry  'em  awhile. 


CURING  A  HICCOUGH. 

Mr  Smithkin  had  heard  that  a  sure  cure  for  a  hic- 
cough was  a  severe  fright.  One  evening,  smoking 
at  his  fireside  after  supper,  he  was  taken  with  a  hic- 
cough, which  continued  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to 
check  it. 

Presently  he  got  up  suddenly  from  his  chair,  and 
called  out  in  alarm  to  Mrs.  .Smithkin  : 

"I've  lost  my  watch !    I've  lost  my  watch ! 

Mrs.  Smithkin  hastened  into  the  room. 

"John  Smithkin!"  said  she,  "What  do  you  mean? 
Why  vou  haint  done  any  such  thing.  Here  s  your 
watch'all  right,  in  your  vest  pocket." 

"Don't  you  think  I  know  that?"  said  Mr.  Smith- 
kin. "I  was  jest  giving  myself  a  severe  fright,  you 
know,  to  stop  the  hiccoughs!" 


HIS  VERY  OWN. 

Little  Tommy  passes  for  a  very  practical  youth. 
The  other  day  his  Uncle  John  brought  him,  as  a 
birthday  present,  a  "word-game,"  which  Tommy 
had  never  played,  and  which  did  not  seem  to  be 
particularly  attractive  to  him. 

Nevertheless,  Tommy  thanked  his  uncle;  and  by 
and  by,  edging  around  his  chair,  he  asked: 

"Say,  Uncle  John?" 

"Well?"  ,  ,f-f,„ 

"  This  game  truly  belongs  to  me  now,  don  t  it." 
"Why,  of  course."  . 
"To  do  just  what  I  want  to  with  it.-1 

"Then1  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do-1'11  sell  it  to  you 
for  ten  cents!" 


Lady 

Whose  "rippl 
to  her  knee,  is 
and  story.  M 
her  equally  lux 
the  use  of 

Ayer's  H 

This  well-kno^ 
the  most  eleg^ 
dressing  in  the 
the  hair  soft 
serves  its  col] 
from  falling,  an 
become  weak  o 
a  new  growth, 
fume,  cleanline 
effects  on  the 
it  for  universal 

"  Some  six  or  s< 
wife  fcad  a  severe  il 

which  she  bee"? 
bald  and  was  coinj 
A  few  months  since 
Ayer's  Hair  Vigor 
after  using  three 
growth  of  hair  start 

The  hair  is  now  from  two  to  four  inches  long,  and  grown 
The  result  is  a  most  gratifying  proof  of  the  merits  of  your  adu 
—  Fredk.  P.  Coggeshall,  51  Merrimack  St.,  Lowell.  Mass. 

"To  restore  the  original  color  of  my  hair,  which  had  turn 
I  used  Ayer's  Hair  Vigor  with  entire  success.  I  cheerfully  j 
of  this  preparation."- P.  H.  DavidsoxN,  Alexandria,  La. 

Ayer's  Hair  Vig| 

Prepared  by  Dr.  J.  C.  Ayer  &  Co.,  Lowell,  Mass.  Sold  by  Drtuj 

IMPURE  BLO 

Is  the  cause  of  Boils,  Carbuncles,  Pimples,  Eczema,  i 
tions  of  all  kinds.  There  can  be  no  permanent  cure  1 
until  the  poison  is  eliminated  from  the  system.  To 
the  safest  and  most  effective  medicine  is  Ayer's  S 
it  a  trial,  and  make  your  complexion  fair  and  brill' 

"I  have  sold  Ayer's  Sarsaparilla  ever  since  it  was 
In  my  opinion,  the  best  remedial  agencies  for  the 
arising  from  impurities  of  the  blood  are  contained 
_G.  C.  Brock,  Druggist,  Lowell,  Mass. 

Ayer's  Sarsapar 

PreparedbyDr.J.C.Ayer&Co.,Lowell,Ma88.    Sold  by  all  Dru^ 

Bright  ey 
sighted;  far^ 
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CHRISTMAS  ON  THE  "POLLY." 


CHRISTMAS  ON  THE  "POLLY." 

It  was  the  good  ship  "  Polly,"  and  she  sailed  the  wirrtry  sea, 
For  ships  must  sail,  tho'  fierce  the  gale,  and  a  precious  freight  had  she; 
Twas  the  captain's  little  daughter  that  stood  beside  her  father's  chair. 
And  illumed  the  dingy  cabin  with  the  sunshine  of  her  hair. 

With  a  yo-heave-ho,  and  a  yo-heave-ho  I 

For  ships  must  sail 

Tho'  fierce  the  gale 
And  loud  the  tempests  blow. 

The  captain's  fingers  rested  on  the  pretty,  curly  head. 
"To-morrow  will  be  Christmas  day,"  the  little  maiden  said; 
"Do  you  suppose  that  Santa  Claus  will  find  us  on  the  sea, 
And  make  believe  the  stove-pipe  is  a  chimney — just  for  me?" 

Loud  laughed  the  jovial  captain,  and  "By  my  faith,"  he  cried, 
"If  he  should  come  we'll  let  him  know  he  has  a  friend  inside!" 
And  many  a  rugged  sailor  cast  a  loving  glance  that  night 
At  the  stove-pipe  where  the  lonely  little  stocking  fluttered  white. 

With  a  yo-heave-ho,  and  a  yo-heave-ho! 

For  ships  must  sail 

Tho'  fierce  the  gale 
And  loud  the  tempests  blow. 

On  the  good  ship  "Polly"  the  Christmas  sun  looked  down, 
And  on  a  smiling  little  face  beneath  a  golden  crown, 
No  happier  child  he  saw  that  day,  on  sea  or  on  the  land, 
Than  the  captain's  little  daughter  with  her  treasures  in  her  hand. 

For  never  was  a  stocking  so  filled  with  curious  things! 

There  were  bracelets  made  of  pretty  shells,  and  rosy  coral  strings; 

An  elephant  carved  deftly  from  a  bit  of  ivory  tusk, 

A  fan,  an  alligator's  tooth,  and  a  little  bag  of  musk, 


98 


"  IF  I  WERE  YOU: 


Not  a  tar  aboard  the  "Polly"  but  felt  the  Christmas  cheer, 
For  the  captain's  little  daughter  was  to  every  sailor  dear. 
They  heard  a  Christmas  carol  in  the  shrieking  wintry  gust, 
For  a  little  child  had  touched  them  by  her  simple,  loving  trust. 

With  a  yo-heave-ho,  and  a  yo-heave-ho! 

For  ships  must  sail 

Tho'  fierce  the  gale 
And  loud  the  tempests  blow. 

Grace  F.  Cooledge,  in  "St.  Nicholas." 


"IF  I  WERE  YOU." 

How  do  I  look  in  your  collar  ? 

How  does  it  suit  me,  Roy  ? 
Suppose  I  now  were  a  big  brave  dog, 

And  you  were  a  little  boy ! 

I  should  go  to  sleep  in  your  kennel, 
'  Outside  on  the  courtyard  stones  ; 
And  you  would  take  me  for  walks  and  swims, 
And  give  me  biscuits  and  bones. 

And  you  would  sleep  in  my  bed,  Roy, 
And  eat  with  my  fork  and  spoon  : 

It  isn't  easy  to  hold  them  right, 
But  I'm  sure  you  would  learn  it  soon. 

And  you  would  have  to  learn  reading, 

And  learn  how  the  figures  go 
Up  to  12  times  12 — I  forget  what  that  is — 

I  always  forget,  you  know. 

Would  you  forget,  I  wonder  ? 
When  your  paws  got  inky  and  black, 


the  imm 

of  m 

WEBSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


A  RHYME  FOR  A  RAINY  DAY. 


IOI 


1  believe  you'd  cry  sometimes,  and  wish 
For  your  dog-days  to  come  back. 

And  I'm  sure  if  I  lived  in  a  kennel, 

And  wore  a  collar  like  this, 
1  should  never  have  kisses,  or  sweets,  or  toys, 

So  perhaps  it's  best  as  it  is ! 

E.  N. 


A  RHYME  FOR  A  RAINY  DAY. 

With  pitter-patter,  pitter-patter  on  my  window  pane, 
Tapped  chipper  little  visitors,  the  tiny  drops  of  rain; 
They  did  not  ask  to  enter,  but  in  liquid  tones  I  heard 
This  story,  which,  as  told  to  me,  I  tell  you  word  for  word: 

"  Within  a  cool,  deep  well  we  lived,  quite  happy,  side  by  side, 
Until  an  empty  bucket  came,  and  asked  us  out  to  ride; 
Then  springing  in,  away  we  went,  drawn  up  into  the  air, 
And  a  pretty  china  pitcher  stood  waiting  for  us  there. 

"Beneath  that  pitcher's  brim  we  thought  much  happiness  to  see; 
But  soon  a  lump  of  ice  popped  in,  with  whom  we  can't  agree, 
For  though  ice  claimed  relationship  before  it  married  frost, 
With  such  a  hard,  cold-hearted  thing  all  sympathy  is  lost. 

"  Ice  tried  to  steal  our  heat  away,  but  air  was  on  our  side, 
And  when  it  felt  how  cold  we  were,  it  just  sat  down  and  cried; 
You  might  have  seen  the  tears  upon  the  pitcher  where  they  prest, 
Till  ice  itself  was  forced  to  melt,  and  mingle  with  the  rest. 

"  But  next  I  have  to  tell  you  of  a  most  amazing  thing, — 
Above  a  blazing  fire  we  were  made  to  sit  and  sing, 
Till  bubbles  brought  the  message  up,  that  heat  would  set  us  free: 
When,  boiling  hard,  we  just  steamed  off,  and  gained  our  liberty! 


102 


A  CHRISTMAS  DAY  DREAM. 


"  We  bounded  off  with  motion  swift,  but  met  a  colder  wind, 
Which  blew  so  fast  that  everything  grew  cloudy  to  our  mind. 
We  cared  not  to  go  higher  then,  we  felt  a  heavy  chill, 
And  down  we  came  quite  suddenly  upon  your  window  sill." 

Now  little  people  everywhere,  there  is  a  saying  old 

That  "Truth  lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  well;'  and  we  make  bold 

To  say:  Within  this  bucketful  of  water  you  may  find 

Some  grains  of  truth  drawn  up  to  store  within  each  busy  mind. 

St.  NiCHOLAS. 


A  CHRISTMAS  DAY  DREAM. 

For  years  I  have  been  haunted  by  a  day-dream  of  a  Christmas 
morning  when  in  all  our  great  rushing,  wonderful  cities,  there  should 
not  be  a  single  hungry,  cold,  or  neglected  child;  when  we  could  know 
that  it  was  a  merry  Christmas  morning  to  all  the  children  ;  more  than 
this,  when  not  a  single  human  being  in  our  midst  would  be  cold  or 
hungry,  or,  what  is  worse,  friendless. 

I  have  dreamed  of  a  true  holiday  week,  during  which  every  church, 
parlor,  and  kitchen  in  the  city  would  be  warmed,  lighted  and  filled 
with  heart-felt  welcoming  cheer,  where  every  great  organ  would  be 
beguiled  of  its  sweetest  notes  for  the  benefit  of  all  who  would  listen. 

Think  how  blessed  it  would  be  to  know  that  every  pair  of  little 
feet  would  be  warmly  clothed,  and  all  little  childish  fingers  snugly  mit- 
tened  ;  yes,  and  that  each  little  girly  heart  had  a  "  dolly  all  her  own," 
and  that  every  boy  was  the  proud  possessor  of  a  pair  of  skates. 

Such  a  work  as  this  is  possible.  There  is  enough  money,  enough 
time,  strength  and  love  to  accomplish  it.  And  who  can  estimate  the 
good  results  of  such  a  festival  of  love,  or  realize  the  value  of  such  an 
object  lesson? 

Let  us  hope  that  the  time  will  come  when  all  hearts  can  be  made 
glad.  Let  us  remember  also  that  this  work  must  be  accomplished 
slowly.    Suppose  you,  my  little  children,  think  about  this,  and  save 


THE  MUSHROOM  FAIRIES. 


your  pennies  for  next  Xmas,  so  as  to  make  happy  the  little  boys  and 
girls  around  you  who  have  no  papas  and  mammas  to  provide  them  with 
comforts.  A  toy,  a  pair  of  shoes,  a  jacket  which  you  may  have  used, 
and  which  is  still  warm,  will  give  a  sparkling  eye  and  a  happier  heart 
than  you  can  imagine ;  if  the  recipient  is  made  to  feel  it  is  all  his  own, 
and  given  in  love. 


THE  MUSHROOM  FAIRIES. 

Many,  many  years  ago, 
Shining  in  the  morning  dew, 

Where  the  mushrooms  used  to  grow 
In  a  field  we  knew, 

Fairies  in  a  circle  bright 

Had  been  dancing  round  and  round, 
Hand-in-hand,  with  footsteps  light, 

Where  these  rings  were  found. 

When  the  world  was  wrapped  in  sleep, 
They  were  bold  enough,  no  doubt — 

When  the  stars  began  to  peep, 
And  the  moon  was  out. 

Once  five  fairies,  by  mischance, 

After  all  the  rest  had  gone, 
At  the  dawn  in  joyful  dance 

Still  were  sporting  on.  ■ 

Two  stout  boots,  immense  and  black, 
Scattering  the  drops  of  dew 

Right  and  left  along  their  track, 
Near  and  nearer  drew  ! — 


HANGING  THE  STOCKINGS. 


There,  beneath  the  mushroom's  shade, 
Huddled  close,  as  you  may  guess, 

Till  the  vision  passed  they  staid, 
Filled  with  sore  distress. 


«  THERE,  BENEATH  THE  MUSHROOM'S  SHADE,  HUDDLED  CLOSE,  AS  YOU  MAY  GUESS." 

When  the  giant's  heavy  tread, 

Fainter  growing,  died  away, 
Back  to  Fairyland  they  sped, 

With  white  cheeks  that  day. 

J.  R.  Eastwood. 


HANGING  THE  STOCKINGS. 
Three  little  worsted  stockings  hanging  all  in  a  row, 
And  I  have  patched  two  scarlet  heels,  and  darned  a  crimson  toe, 
Over  the  eyes  of  azure,  over  the  eyes  of  brown, 
Seemed  as  though  the  eyelids  could  never  be  coaxed  down. 

I  sang  for  a  good  long  hour  before  they  were  shut  quite  tight; 
For  to-morrow  will  be  Christmas,  and  St.  Nick  comes  to-night; 
We  laughed  as  we  dropped  the  candies  into  heel  and  toe, 
For  not  one  little  stocking  was  missing  from  the  row. 


A  GUESS  FOR  THE  CHILDREN.  i< 

And  when  our  work  was  ended,  we  stood  a  little  apart, 
Silently  praying  the  Father  to  soothe  that  mothers  heart 
Who  looks  on  her  unworn  stockings  amid  her  falling  tears, 
Whose  darling  is  keeping  Christmas  in  Christ's  eternal  years. 


A  GUESS  FOR  THE  CHILDREN. 

Children,  there's  somebody  coming, 
So  try  to  think  sharply  and  well, 

And  when  I  get  through  with  my  story 
Just  see  if  his  name  you  can  tell. 

His  hair  is  white  as  the  snowdrift, 

But  then  he  is  not  very  old; 
His  coat  is  of  fur  at  this  season, 

The  weather,  you  know,  is  so  cold. 

He'll  bring  all  the  children  a  present, 
The  rich,  and  I  hope,  too,  the  poor; 

Some  say  he  comes  down  the  chimney; 
I  think  he  comes  in  at  the  door. 

His  coat  is  all  stuffed  full  of  candy, 
While  all  sorts  of  beautiful  toys 

You'll  see  sticking  out  of  his  pockets, 
For  girls  just  as  well  as  for  boys. 

And  presents  he  brings  for  the  mothers, 
And  fathers  and  aunts  with  the  rest; 

But  most  he  will  bring  for  the  children, 
Because  he  likes  little  folks  best. 

I  think  you  will  know  when  you  see  him, 
He  is  dressed  up  so  funny  and  queer, 

And  you'll  hear  every  one  shouting, 
Merry  Christmas  and  Happy  New  Year! 


;oS  CHRISTMAS. 


CHRISTMAS. 
Oh!  the  dawn  of  the  Christmas  morning! 

Oh!  the  ring  of  the  Christmas  bells  ! 
Oh!  the  joy  and  the  loving  gladness 

Which  the  song  of  the  steeple  tells. 
Oh!  the  laugh  of  the  happy  children  ! 

Oh!  the  shine  of  their  sparkling  eyes! 
Opening  out  of  the  night-time's  shadow 

Into  the  light  of  the  Christmas  skies. 
Oh!  the  rows  of  the  stockings  hanging, 

Brimming  full  of  the  dainty  toys ! 
Oh!  the  hurry,  the  rush,  the  scramble, 

Here  and  there,  of  the  girls  and  boys! 
Dear  old  Santa!  a  thousand  welcomes 

Greet  thee  ever  throughout  the  land; 
Thou  who  goest  with  mirth  and  gladness, 

Songs  and  merriment  hand  in  hand. 
Oh!  ye  steeples,  be  ever  ringing 

Your  glad  song  of  the  Christmas  time; 
And  the  music  of  children's  voices 

Soft  and  sweet  with  the  bells  will  chime. 
"Peace  on  earth  and  good  will!"  aye  tell  it 

Loud  and  clear  from  the  steeple's  height, 
Till  all  hearts  shall  have  caught  the  message 

Born  with  the  Christmas  dawn  so  bright. 


THE  SECRET  V/ITH  SANTA  CLAUS. 

Dear  Santa  Claus,  up  in  the  chimney, 
Won't  you  please  listen  to  me  ? 

Nurse  put  me  in  bed  so  early, 
I  ain't  a  bit  sleepy,  you  see. 


THE  SECRET  WITH  SANTA  CLAUS. 

The  big  folks  are  down  in  the  parlor, 

Laughing  and  making  a  noise, 
And  I  cannot  sleep  just  for  thinking 

Of  Christmas  and  all  the  new  toys. 

So  I've  got  out  of  bed,  just  a  minute, 

To  tell  you — I'll  whisper  it  low — 
The  stockings  I've  hung  by  the  fire 
Are  for  me — not  mamma,  you  know. 

For  mine  are  so  awfully  little, 

Dear  Santa  Claus,  don't  you  see  ? 
And  I  want,  oh  !  so  many  playthings, 
They  won't  hold  enough  for  me. 

So  I  want. you  to  surely  remember, 
And  fill  these  as  full  as  you  can  ; 
'Cause  I  haven't  been  very  naughty, 
And  you're  such  a  nice  kind  man  ! 

I  like  a  live  doll,  if  you  please,  sir, 

That  can  talk  and  call  me  "  mamma 
Not  one  that  is  full  of  old  sawdust, 
As  all  my  other  dolls  are. 

There ;  now  I'm  through  with  my  secret, 

I  must  scramble  back  into  bed  ; 
But  first,  Mr.  Santa  Claus,  promise 

You  won't  tell  a  word  I  have  said. 

And  please,  don't  forget  the  big  stockings 

Are  not  for  mamma,  but  for  me  : 
And  please,  sir,  you'll  try  to  remember, 
To  fill  them  as  full  as  can  be  I 

Mary  D.  Brine. 


I  IO 


THE  HOT  ROASTED  CHESTNUT. 


THE  HOT  ROASTED  CHESTNUT. 

A  PARODY. 

How  dear  to  my  heart  is  the  hot-chestnut  vender, 

Who  comes  with  cold  weather,  and  goes  with  the  snow! 
What  finds  he  to  do  in  the  summer,  I  wonder? 

To  the  North  or  the  South,  which  way  does  he  go? 
He  stands  on  the  corner  when  chill  winds  are  blowing, 

His  fingers  alternately  burning  and  cold, 
And  stirs  up  the  chestnuts  to  keep  them  from  burning — 

I  wish  he  would  pick  out  the  bad  and  the  old! 
The  sweet  toothsome  chestnut,  the  brown-covered  chestnut, 

The  hot  roasted  chestnut  I  remember  of  old! 

The  scent  of  the  roasting — what  rose  can  surpass  it? 
'  So  fragrant  and  tempting,  the  nuts  sweet  and  brown! 
About  eleven  in  the  morning  I  never  could  pass  it, 

With  change  in  my  pocket,  without  coming  down. 
How  eager  I  seized  on  the  little  tin  measure, 

And  quick  in  my  pockets  the  contents  did  pour. 
No  language  could  tell  all  the  sweets  of  the  treasure; 

Just  try  it  yourself,  and  you'll  quickly  want  more. 
The  tempting  ripe  chestnut,  the  soft  mealy  chestnut, 

The  hot  roasted  chestnut  we  cherished  of  yore! 

The  home-made  Italians  from  whom  we  receive  it, 

Some  male  and  some  female,  my  blessings  to  all! 
They  may  be  a  nuisance,  but  I'll  not  believe  it, 

They'd  rather  roast  chestnuts  than  not  work  at  all. 
Although  I'm  no  longer  a  dear  little  urchin, 

I  cherish  the  memory  of  pleasure  so  sweet; 
And  while  in  the  season  1  still  will  keep  munchin' 

The  hot  roasted  chestnut  with  the  sweetest  of  meat. 
The  sweet  toothsome  chestnut,  the  brown-covered  chestnut, 

The  hot  roasted  chestnut  that's  bought  on  the  street! 

J.  Ed.  Milliken. 


CHRISTMAS  DAY. 


1 1 1 


CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

What's  this  hurry,  what's  this  flurry, 

All  throughout  the  house  to-day  ? 
Everywhere  a  merry  scurry, 

Everywhere  a  sound  of  play. 
Something  too's  the  matter,  matter, 

Out-of-doors  as  well  as  in, 
For  the  bell  goes  clatter,  clatter, 

Every  minute — such  a  din  ! 

Everybody  winking,  blinking, 

In  a  queer,  mysterious  way  ; 
What  on  earth  can  they  be  thinking, 

What  on  earth  can  be  to  pay  ? 
Bobby  peeping  o'er  the  stairway, 

Bursts  into  a  little  shout ; 
Kitty,  too,  is  in  a  fair  way, 

Where  she  hides,  to  giggle  out. 

As  the  bell  goes  cling  a-ling-ing 

Every  minute  more  and  more, 
And  swift  feet  go  springing,  springing, 

Through  the  hallway  to  the  door, 
Where  a  glimpse  of  box  and  pocket, 

And  a  little  rustle,  rustle, 
Make  such  sight  and  sound  and  racket — 

Such  a  jolly  bustle,  bustle — 

That  the  youngsters  in  their  places, 

Hiding  slily  out  of  sight, 
All  at  once  show  shining  faces, 

All  at  once  scream  with  delight. 


I  1  2 


THE  FALLING  LEAVES. 


Go  and  ask  them  what's  the  matter, 

What  the  fun  outside  and  in — 
What  the  meaning  of  the  clatter, 

What  the  bustle  and  the  din. 
Hear  them,  hear  them  laugh  and  shout  then, 

All  together  hear  them  say, 
"  Why,  what  have  you  been  about,  then, 

Not  to  know  it's  Christmas  Day  ?" 


THE  FALLING  LEAVES. 

A  blithe  red  squirrel  sat  under  a  tree, 
When  the  leaves  were  falling  adown,  adown; 

Some  were  golden  and  some  wrere  red, 
And  some  were  a  russet  brown. 

"If  only  these  leaves  were  nuts,"  thought  he, 

"  What  a  rich  little  squirrel  I  should  be!" 

A  sweet  little  baby  sat  under  a  tree, 
When  the  leaves  were  falling  adown,  adown; 

They  fell  in  his  lap,  they  danced  on  his  toes, 
And  they  tickled  his  little  bald  crown. 

He  lifted  his  arms,  and  crowed  with  glee: 

"They're  birdies,  mamma,  all  flying  to  me." 

Some  poor  little  flowers  lay  under  a  tree, 
When  the  leaves  were  falling  adown,  adown; 

And  they  thought  of  the  cold,  bleak  wintry  days, 
And  the  snow-king's  angry  frown. 

But  the  leaves  called  out,  "We're  coming,  you  see, 

To  tuck  you  in  as  snug  as  can  be." 


A  RIDE  IN  STATE. 


NOT  APPRECIATED. 


A  shy  little  bunny  sat  under  a  tree, 

But  the  snow-flakes  were  falling  adown,  adown; 
The  wise  red  squirrel  had  scampered  away, 

And  the  baby  had  gone  to  town. 
So  he  lifted  the  cover  a  trifle  to  see, 
And  the  flowers  were  sleeping  as  sound  as  could  be. 


NOT  APPRECIATED. 


"I  DON'T  KNOW  WHERE  TO  STOP.: 


I'm  very  fond  of  drawing;  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do 

Without  my  slate  and  pencil,  and  my  box  of  colors  too; 

I  can  make  the  nicest  drawings  that  you  almost  ever  saw; 

Indeed,  there's  hardly  anything  I  don't  know  how  to  draw: 

Men  and  women,  little  boys  and  girls,  in  cloaks  and  capes  and  hats; 


n6 


TWO  LITTLE  ARTISTS. 


Horses  and  dogs,  and  sheep  and  bears,  and  elephants  and  cats; 
Wagons  and  carts,  and  houses  with  chimneys  on  top — 
I'm  so  very  fond  of  drawing  that  I  don't  know  where  to  stop. 
But — I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  it  is:  perhaps  because  I'm  small — 
The  folks  that  see  my  drawings  don't  know  what  they  are  at  all! 

Emma  A.  Opper. 


TWO  LITTLE  ARTISTS. 


Lucy  sat  with  her  pencil  against  her  lips,  looking  at  what  she  had 
drawn  on  her  new  slate.    She  nodded  her  head,  and  said  to  Ella — 
"  Here  is  the  ink-pot,  there  is  the  glass  of  flowers,  there  is  the 

book.  I  have  drawn  them 
all,  and  they  are  so  good  that 
I  do  not  know  which  is  best. 
What  are  you  doing?" 

Ella  was  leaning  over 
her  slate,  and  she  did  not 
look  up.  She  did  not  say 
anything  at  first,  but  Lucy 
saw  that  two  large  tears 
were  rolling  down  her 
cheeks. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 
said  Lucy. 

"I  can't  do  them.  I 
have  tried  and  tried,  but  I 
So  I've  rubbed  them  out,  and  there  is  noth- 


LUCY  SAT  WITH  HER  PENCIL  AGAINST  HER  LIPS. 


cannot  draw  them  right 
ing  on  my  slate." 

"I  shall  make  pictures  when  I  am  a  woman,"  said  Lucy,  "and  I 
shall  sell  them  for  a  great  deal  of  money.  So  I  shall  be  very  rich. 
Should  you  not  like  to  draw  pictures  for  people  to  buy?"  And  Lucy 
looked  at  her  slate. 

'"Yes,"  sobbed  Ella.   Then  she  said — 

"  Let  me  look  at  your  drawing,  Lucy." 

So  Lucy  gave  the  slate  to  Ella,  and  to  her  great  surprise,  Ella  left 
off  crying,  and  burst  out  laughing. 

"I  don't  call  that  drawing — they  are  quite  as  funny  as  mine  were." 


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THE  LIBRARY 
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ELOCUTIONARY  SELECTIONS. 

1st.   The  highest  art  in  Elocution  is  to  be  natural. 

2d.  Pure  tone  covers  the  great  field  of  ordinary 
conversation,  simple  narrative,  and  plain 
description. 

3d.  Correct  and  natural  conversation  we  find 
our  purest  models  from  which  to  copy  in 
our  reading. 


132 


A  HERO 


i33 


A  HERO. 

In  the  cosy  chimney  corner,  with  his  rosy  cheeks  aglow, 
Little  Hans  was  safely  sheltered  from  the  driving  hail  and  snow; 
Back  and  forward  went  the  mother,  dropping  now  and  then  a  word, 
While  she  paused  to  rock  the  cradle,  where  the  year  old  baby  stirred. 
"  Yes,  my  lad,"  she  softly  answered  to  a  question  of  her  son, 
"  Duty  is  the  best  of  heroes,  duty  well  and  bravely  done. 
Never  mind  how  hard  ;  a  hero  faces  hardness  like  a  man; 
God  rewards  the  boy  who  ever  does  the  very  best  he  can." 
Came  the  day  when  slow  and  stealthy,  all  unseen  by  mortal  eyes, 
In  the  cold  northwestern  heavens,  did  a  little  cloud  arise, 
Frowning  on  the  fair  horizon,  gathering  with  the  angry  blast, 
Till  the  snow  came  hurtling  downward,  white  and  blinding,  keen 
and  fast. 

Not  beside  the  chimney  corner,  but  in  school  a  mile  away, 
Little  Hans  with  sturdy  courage  faced  the  dark  and  bitter  day. 
Gold-haired  Mabel  stood  beside  him;  "I  will  take  her  home/'  he  said, 
Tying  close  the  scarlet  hood  about  the  sunny,  curly  head. 
Well  we  know  the  hapless  story,  how  the  children  struggled  on, 
Whirled  like  driftwood  in  a  torrent,  till  the  wintry  light  was  gone, 
Stumbling,  sobbing,  praying,  calling,  in  the  darkness  and  the  snow, 
While  the  rescue  party  sought  them,  waving  torches  to  and  fro  ; 
While  the  mothers  at  the  windows  watched  and  waited,  sick  with 
dread, 

And  the  frantic  tempest  battled,  like  an  army  overhead. 

When  they  found  him  Hans  was  sleeping,  with  a  smile  upon  his  face, 

Just  as  if  an  angel  passing,  lowly  bent,  had  kissed  the  place, 

Holding  Mabel's  dimpled  fingers  very  tightly  in  his  own, 

His  warm  jacket  for  protection  o'er  her  little  shoulders  thrown. 

Did  the  mother-heart  remember,  grieving  for  her  hero-lad, 

What  she  said  to  him  of  duty  ;  did  she  know  how  well  he  had 


134 


AN  APRIL  JOKE. 


Done  the  noblest  and  the  simplest  work  'twas  given  him  to  do, 
Dying  in  his  happy  childhood,  while  his  joyous  life  was  new  ? 
Through  the  fierce  Dakota  blizzard  many  a  valiant  soul  and  brave, 
Found  its  way  to  Him  who  triumphed  once  for  all  above  the  grave  f 
None  was  stronger,  none  sublimer  than  the  little  hero  child, 
Who,  in  doing  what  he  could,  faced  a  bitter  death,  and  smiled. 


AN  ■  APRIL  JOKE. 

Master  Ned  on  the  doorstep  sat, 

Busily  thinking  away ; 
"  Now,  what  shall  I  plan  for  a  clever  trick, 

For  an  April-fool  to  play  ? 
There's  Tom  he's  mean  as  a  boy  can  be, 

And  he  never  can  pass  me  by 
Without  a  word  that  is  rude  and  cross, 

And  maybe  a  punch  on  the  sly. 

"Some  trick  I'll  find  that'll  pay  him  off, 

And  teach  him  a  lesson,  too." 
So  master  Ned  he  pondered  awhile, 

Till  the  dimples  grew  and  grew  ; 
And  he  laughed  at  last  as  away  he  ran, 

"  I'll  make  him  sorry,"  thought  he, 
"  For  the  many  times  he  has  done  his  best 

To  tease  and  to  trouble  me." 

On  April  first  with  the  early  dawn, 
Was  found  at  Tommy's  door 

A  package  tied,  and  "  Master  Tom  " 
The  only  address  it  bore. 

"  Tis  only  a  trick  of  Ned's,"  said  Tom; 
"  He  owes  me  many  a  one  ; 

But  I'll  match  him  yet— he'd  better  beware- 
Before  the  day  is  done." 


WHERE  DO  THE  WRINKLES  COME  FROM? 

Then  Tom  peeped  in  at  his  package, 

Oh,  what  a  shamefaced  fellow  was  he  I 
A  handsome  book,  and  line  which  read, 

"  Accept  this,  Tom,  from  me.1' 
And  this  is  the  way  in  which  Tom  was  "  fooled 

And  afterward,  meeting  Ned, 
"  Your  trick  has  beaten  all  mine  for  good  : 

Forgive  me,  old  fellow,"  he  said. 


WHERE  DO  THE  WRINKLES  COME  FROM? 

"Where  do  the  wrinkles  come  from?" 

And  joyous  little  Grace 
Looked  gravely  in  the  mirror 

At  her  rose-tinted  face. 

"Where  do  the  wrinkles  come  from? 

Why  first,  dear,  I  suppose, 
The  heart  lets  in  a  sorrow, 

And  then  a  wrinkle  grows. 

"Then  anger  comes  a-tapping, 
And  the  heart's  door  opens  wide; 

Then  hasten  naughty  envy 
And  discontent  and  pride. 

"And  the  wrinkles  follow  slowly; 

For  the  face  has  for  its  part 
To  tell  just  what  is  doing 

Down  in  the  secret  heart. 


WHERE  DO  THE  WRINKLES  COME  FROM? 


"And  the  red  lips  lose  their  sweetness, 
And  draw  down  so,"  said  Grace, 


READY  FOR  THE  PARTY. 

"Watch  the  gate  of  the  heart,  my  darling-, 


For  the  heart  is  the  dwelling-place 
Of  the  magical  angel  of  beauty, 
Whose  smile  is  seen  in  the  face." 


A  COBWEB  MADE  TO  ORDER. 


*37 


A  COBWEB  MADE  TO  ORDER. 

A  hungry  spider  made  a  web 

Of  thread  so  very  fine, 
Your  tiny  fingers  scarce  could  feel 

The  little  tender  line. 
Round  about  and  round  about, 

And  round  about  it  spun, 
Straight  across,  and  back  again, 

Until  the  web  was  done. 

Oh,  what  a  pretty  shining 
web 

It  was  when  it  was  done! 
The  little  flies  all  came  to  see 

It  hanging  in  the  sun. 
Round  about   and  round 
about, 

And  round  about  they 
danced, 
Across  the  web,  and  back 
again, 

They  darted,  and  they 
glanced. 

The  hungry  spider  sat  and  watched 

The  happy  little  flies; 
It  saw  all  round  about  its  head, 

It  had  so  many  eyes.  . 
Round  about  and  round  about, 

And  round  about  they  go, 
Across  the  web,  and  back  again, 

Now  high — now  low. 


THE  YOUNG  HUSBAND  TO  HIS  WIFE. 


"I'm  hungry,  very  hungry,'1 

Said  the  spider  to  a  fly. 
"  If  you  were  caught  within  the  web 

You  very  soon  should  die." 
But  round  about  and  round  about, 

And  round  about  once  more, 
Across  the  web,  and  back  again, 

They  flitted  as  before. 

For  all  the  flies  were  much  too  wise 

To  venture  near  the  spider; 
They  flapped  their  little  wings  and  tlew 

In  circles  rather  wider. 
Round  about  and  round  about. 

And  round  about  went  they, 
Across  the  web,  and  back  again, 

And  then  they  flew  away. 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


THE  YOUNG  HUSBAND  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

What  do  I  want  for  breakfast,  dear? 
My  wants  are  all  in  my  mind  quite  clear: 
You,  with  your  cheerful  morning  smile 
And  a  pretty  dress,  my  thoughts  to  beguile 
Into  thinking  of  flowers;  an  earnest  word 
That  will  all  through  my  busy  day  be  heard, 
And  make  me  sure  that  my  morning  light 
Beams  strongly  true  e'en  while  dancing  bright. 
Be  certain  to  give  me  these,  all  these, 
And  anything  else  that  you  can  or  please. 

But  dinner,  what  will  I  have  for  that? 
Well  dear,  when  I  enter,  doff  my  hat, 


THE  UNFINISHED  PRAYER. 


l39 


And  turn  to  the  table,  I  want  to  see  you, 
Standing  just  as  you  always  do, 
To  make  me  lose  all  the  forenoon's  fret 
And  cheer  for  the  afternoon  work  to  get. 
Tell  me  all  your  news,  and  Til  tell  mine, 
And  with  love  and  joy  and  peace  we'll  dine. 
Be  certain  to  give  me  these,  all  these, 
And  anything  else  that  you  can  or  please. 

And  what  for  tea?   Have  I  any  choice? 
Yes,  dear;  the  sound  of  your  gentle  voice, 
And  your  gentle  presence.    I  always  feel 
The  cares  of  the  day  like  shadows  steal 

Away  from  your  soul,  light;  and  evening  rest 
Comes  just  in  the  way  that  1  love  best, 
So,  when  you  are  planning  our  twilight  tea 
With  a  special  thought  in  your  heart  for  me, 
Be  certain  to  give  me  these,  all  these, 
And  anything  else  that  you  can  or  please. 


THE  UNFINISHED  PRAYER. 

"Now  I  lay" — repeat  it,  darling — 

"  Lay  me,"  lisped  the  tiny  lips 
Of  my  daughter,  kneeling,  bending 

O'er  her  folded  finger-tips. 

"Down  to  sleep."  "To  sleep,"  she  murmured, 

And  the  curly  head  bent  low ; 
"  1  pray  the  Lord,"  I  gently  added; 

"  Y ou  can  say  it  all,  I  know." 

"Pray  the  Lord  "—the  sound  came  faintly, 
Fainter  still,  "  My  soul  to  keep  ;" 


R01/ER  IN  CHURCH. 


Then  the  tired  head  fairly  nodded, 
And  the  child  was  fast  asleep. 

But  the  dewy  eyes  half  opened 
When  I  clasped  her  to  my  breast, 

And  the  dear  voice  softly  whispered, 
"  Mamma,  God  knows  all  the  rest/' 


ROVER  IN  CHURCH. 


Twas  a  Sunday  morning  in  early  May, 

A  beautiful,  sunny,  quiet  day, 

And  all  the  village,  old  and  young, 

Had  trooped  to  church  when  the  church  bell  rung. 

The  windows  were  open,  and  breezes  sweet 

Fluttered  the  hymn-books  from  seat  to  seat. 

Even  the  birds,  in  the  pale-leaved  birch, 

Sang  as  softly  as  in  church! 

Right  in  the  midst  of  the  minister's  prayer 
There  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  "Who's  there, 
I  wonder?"  the  gray-haired  sexton  thought, 
As  his  careful  ear  the  tapping  caught. 
Rap-rap,  rap-rap — a  louder  sound, 
The  boys  on  the  back  seats  turned  around. 
What  could  it  mean?  for  never  before 
Had  any  one  knocked  at  the  old  church  door. 

Again  the  tapping,  and  now  so  loud, 

The  minister  paused  (though  his  head  was  bowed). 

Rappety-rapl    This  will  never  do, 

The  girls  are  peeping,  and  laughing  too! 


ROJ/ER  IN  CHURCH. 


H3 


So  the  sexton  tripped  o'er  the  creaking  floor, 
Lifted  the  latch,  and  opened  the  door. 
In  there  trotted  a  big  black  doe*. 
As  big  as  a  bear!    With  a  solemn  jog 

Right  up  the  center  aisle  he  pattered; 
People  might  stare,  it  little  mattered. 
Straight  he  went  to  a  little  maid, 
Who  blushed  and  hid,  as  though  afraid, 
And  there  sat  down,  as  if  to  say, 
"  I'm  sorry  that  I  was  late  to-day; 
But  better  late  than  never,  you  know, 
Besides,  I  waited  an  hour  or  so, 

"And  couldn't  get  them  to  open  the  door, 
Till  I  wagged  my  tail  and  bumped  the  floor; 
Now,  little  mistress,  I'm  going  to  stay 
And  hear  what  the  minister  has  to  say." 
The  poor  little  girl  hid  her  face,  and  cried! 
But  the  big  dog  nestled  close  to  her  side, 
And  kissed  her,  dog  fashion,  tenderly, 
Wondering  what  the  matter  could  be! 

He  sat  through  the  sermon  and  heard  it  all, 
The  dog  being  large,  and  the  sexton  small, 
As  solemn  and  wise  as  any  one  there, 
With  a  very  dignified,  scholarly  air! 
And  instead  of  scolding,  the  minister  said, 
As  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  sweet  child's  head, 
After  the  service,  "I  never  knew 
Two  better  list'ners  than  Rover  and  you!" 

James  Buckham. 


TIME  TURNS  THE  TABLES. 


TIME  TURNS  THE  TABLES. 

Ten  years  ago,  when  she  was  ten, 
I  used  to  tease  and  scold  her; 

I  liked  her,  and  she  loved  me  then, 
A  boy  some  five  years  older. 

I  liked  her,  she  would  fetch  my  book, 
Bring  lunch  to  stream  or  thicket; 

Would  oil  my  gun,  or  bait  my  hook, 
And  field  for  hours  at  cricket. 


She'd  mend  my  cap,  or  find  my  whip. 

Ah!  but  boys'  hearts  are  stony! 
I  liked  her  rather  less  than  "Gyp," 

And  far  less  than  my  pony. 

She  loved  me  then,  though  heaven  knows  why, 

Small  wonder  had  she  hated, 
For  scores  of  dolls  she's  had  to  cry, 

Whom  I  decapitated. 

I  tore  her  frocks,  I  pulled  her  hair, 
Called  "red"  the  sheen  upon  it; 
Out  fishing  I  would  even  dare 
,  Catch  tadpoles  in  her  bonnet. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 


Well,  now  I  expiate  my  crime; 

The  Nemesis  of  fables 
Came  after  years— to-day  Old  Time 

On  me  has  turned  the  tables. 

Pm  twenty-five,  she's  twenty  now, 
Dark-eyed,  pink-cheeked  and  bonny, 

The  curls  are  golden  round  her  brow; 
She  smiles,  and  calls  me  "Johnny." 

Of  yore  I  used  her  Christian  name, 
But  now,  through  fate  or  malice, 

When  she  is  by  my  lips  can't  frame 
Five  letters  to  make  "Alice." 

I,  who  could  joke  with  her  and  tease, 

Stand  silent  now  before  her; 
Dumb,  through  the  very  wish  to  please, 

A  speechless,  shy  adorer. 

Or,  if  she  turns  to  me  to  speak, 

I'm  dazzled  by  her  graces; 
The  hot  blood  rushes  to  my  cheek, 

I  babble  commonplaces. 

She's  kind  and  cool — ah!  heaven  knows  how 
I  wish  she  blushed  and  faltered; 

She  likes  me,  and  I  love  her  now; 
Dear,  dear!  how  things  have  altered. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

"Good-night,  dear  mamma,"  a  little  girl  said, 
"  I'm  going  to  sleep  in  my  trundle-bed  ; 
Good-night,  dear  papa,  little  brother  and  sis  I" 
And  to  each  one  the  innocent  gave  a  sweet  kiss. 

"  Good-night,  little  darling,"  her  fond  mother  said 
"  But  remember,  before  you  lie  down  in  your  bed, 
With  a  heart  full  of  love,  and  a  tone  soft  and  mild, 
To  breathe  a  short  prayer  to  Heaven,  dear  child." 


GOOD'NIGHT. 

"  Oh  yes,  dear  mother  I"  said  the  child  with  a  nod, 
"I  love,  oh,  I  love  to  say  good-night  to  God  T 

Kneeling  down,  "My  father  in  Heaven,"  she  said, 
"  I  thank  thee  for  giving  me  this  nice  little  bed  ; 
For  though  mamma  told  me  she  bought  it  for  me, 
She  says  that  everything  good  comes  from  Thee  ; 


"  I  thank  Thee  for  keeping  me  safe  through  the  day ; 
I  thank  Thee  for  teaching  me,  too,  how  to  pray ;" 
Then  bending  her  sweet  little  head  with  a  nod, 
"  Good-night,  my  dear  father,  my  Maker,  and  God  ; 

"Should  I  never  again  on  earth  ope  mine  eyes, 
I  pray  Thee  to  give  me  a  home  in  the  skies  !" 


WHEN  WE  WERE  GIRLS. 


Twas  an  exquisite  sight  as  she  meekly  knelt  there, 

With  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  her  hands  clasped  in  prayer; 

And  I  thought  of  the  time  when  the  Saviour,  in  love, 
Said,  "  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  above  ;" 
And  I  inwardly  prayed  that  my  own  heart  the  while 
Might  be  cleansed  from  its  bitterness,  freed  from  its  guile.. 

Then  she  crept  into  bed,  that  beautiful  child, 
And  was  soon  lost  in  slumber,  so  calm  and  so  mild 
That  we  listened  in  vain  for  the  sound  of  her  breath. 
As  she  lay  in  the  arms  of  the  emblem  of  death. 


WHEN  WE  WERE  GIRLS. 

"Do  you  mind  the  Widow  Martin's  quiltin'? 

Her  daughter  Sue  was  a  flighty  thing  ; 
Always  laughin',  an'  flirtin'  an'  j 1 1  tin', 

An'  wearin'  this'n  an7  t'other's  ring. 
She's  dead  this  twenty  year,  poor  creeter: 

She  had  soft  blue  eyes  an'  a  head  o'  curls, 
Seems  like  the  maids  an'  flowers  were  sweeter 

When  we  were  girls. 

"  How  it  snowed  that  day,  though  'twas  just  November  ! 

Was  the  quilt  'Log  Cabin,'  or  'Irish  Chain'? 
I  have  forgot.    But  I  well  remember 

The  widow's  nephew  from  down  in  Maine. 
When  he  shook  the  cat,  he  set  her  yellin', 

An'  bounced  her  out  in  about  three  whirls. 
They  had  many  ways  o'  fortune-tellin' 

When  we  were  girls. 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  spellin'  battle — 
'Twas  summer  then,  and  the  weather  fine — 

When  Polly  Jenks  spelt  'C-a-t-1,  cattle,' 
An'  TempVance  Trimble  V-i-g-n,  vine'? 


GOOD  AND  BETTER. 


But  vvhat  did  it  matter,  word  or  letter  ? 

They  had  cheeks  like  roses,  teeth  like  peark 
Men  were  the  same— no  worse,  no  better 

When  we  were  girls. 

"  Twas  the  master  himself  that  Polly  married. 

Why,  Jane,  what  ails  ye  ?  What  makes  ye  sigh  ? 
You  could  not  wed  while  the  grandsire  tarried; 

So  youth,  an'  roses,  an*  love  went  by. 
They  tell  me  Polly  is  fine  and  haughty 

In  boughten  roses,  an'  boughten  pearls, 
An'  the  master,  just  the  same  that  taught  ye 

When  we  were  girls. 

"  Oh,  the  winter  time,  full  o'  rides  an'  dances ; 

The  summer  days  when  we  sang  and  spun; 
The  meetin'-house,  an'  the  stolen  glances 

Across  the  aisle  when  the  prayer  was  done ! 
Fifty  year  since  we  two  were  twenty  ; 

But  it  all  comes  back  as  the  smoke  upcurls — 
The  joy,  an'  hope,  an'  love,  an'  plenty 

When  we  were  girls. 


GOOD  AND  BETTER. 

A  father  sat  by  the  chimney-post 
On  a  winter's  day,  enjoying  a  roast ; 
By  his  side  a  maiden  young  and  fair, 
A  girl  with  a  wealth  of  golden  hair ; 
And  she  teases  the  father  stern  and  cold, 
With  a  question  of  duty  trite  and  old, — 
"  Say,  father,  what  shall  a  maiden  do 
When  a  man  of  merit  comes  to  woo  ? 
And,  father,  what  of  this  pain  in  my  breast  ? 
Married  or  single— which  is  the  best  ?" 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  M 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  HUSKIhp. 


Then  the  sire  of  the  maiden  young  and  fair, 
The  girl  with  the  wealth  of  golden  hair, 
He  answers  as  ever  do  fathers  cold, 
To  the  question  of  duty  trite  and  old, 
"  She  who  weddeth  keeps  God's  letter: 
She  who  weds  not,  doeth  better." 
Then  meekly  answered  the  maiden  fair, 
The  girl  with  the  wealth  of  golden  hair, 
"  I'll  keep  the  sense  of  the  holy  letter, 
Content  to  do  well  without  doing  better." 


THE  HUSKIN'. 

Ole  "Cross-roads  Brown/'  he  give  a  bee, 

An'  'vited  all  the  neighbors, 
Until  a  rig'ment  fought  his  corn, 

With  huskin'-pegs  fur  sabers. 

The  night  was  clear  as  Em  Steele  s  eyes, 
The  moon  as  mild  as  Nancy's, 

The  stars  was  winkin 's  if  they  knowed 
All  'bout  our  loves  and  fancies, 

The  breeze  was  sharp,  an'  braced  a  chap, 
Like  Minnie  Silver's  laughin'; 

The  cider  in  the  gallon  jug 
Was  jes  tip-top  fur  quaffin'. 

The  gals  sung  many  a  ole-time  song, 

Us  boys  a-jinin'  chorus — 
We'd  no  past  shames  to  make  us  sad, 

Nor  dreaded  ones  afore  us. 


THE  HUSKIN'. 


The  shock  was  tumbled  on  the  ground, 
Each  one  its  own  direction, 

An'  ears  was  droppin'  all  around, 
Like  pennies  at  collection. 

On  one  side  o'  the  shock  a  boy, 
His  sweetheart  on  the  other, 

A  kind  o'  timid  like  an'  coy, 
But  not  so  very,  nuther. 

The  fodder  rustles  dry  and  clean, 
The  husks  like  silver  glisten, 

The  ears  o'  gold  shine  in  between, 
As  if  they  try  to  listen. 

An'  when  a  red  ear  comes  to  light, 
Like  some  strange  boy  a-blushin', 

The  gal  she  gives  a  scream  o'  fright, 
An'  jukes  her  pardner,  rushin' 

To  git  a  kiss,  the  red  ear's  prize, 
Till,  conquered  most  completely, 

She  lifts  her  lips  and  brightened  eyes, 
And  gives  him  one  so  sweetly. 

They  had  a  shock  off  from  the  rest — 

Tom  Fell  an'  Lizzie  Beyer, 
An'  Tom  he  wouldn't  say  a  word, 

Got  mute  in  getting  nigh  her. 

But  Liz,  she  knowed  jes  by  his  move, 
Tom  loved  her  like  tarnation, 

An'  every  time  she  said  a  word, 
She  seen  him  blush  carnation. 


LEEDLE  YAWCOB  STRAUSS. 


J53 


She  seen  him  husk  the  red  ears  out. 

The  bashful,  foolish  fellow, 
As  if  each  red  one  wasn't  worth 

A  dozen  piles  o'  yellow. 

Their  shock  was  jes  'bout  finished  up, 

An'  Liz  was  busy  twistin' 
A  great  big  ear,  to  get  it  off, 

An'  it  was  still  resistin', 

Until  she  said,  44  Do  break  it,  Tom/' 

She  didn't  know  she  hed  one, 
Till  lookin'  down  she  blushed  an'  cried, 

"Oh  1  gracious,  Tom,  't's  a  red  one  1" 

An'  Tom  he  gave  her  such  a  kiss — 
Stretched  out  'twould  make  me  twenty, 

An'  all  that  night,  in  all  their  shocks, 
Red  ears  seemed  mighty  plenty. 

Will  F.  McSparrak. 


LEEDLE  YAWCOB  STRAUSS. 

I  haf  von  funny  leedle  poy 
Vot  gomes  schust  to  my  knee, — 
Der  queerest  schap,  der  createst  rogue 
As  ever  you  did  see. 

He  runs,  und  schumps,  und  schmashes  dings 

In  all  barts  off  der  house. 

But  vot  off  dot?  He  vas  mine  son, 

Mine  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  get  der  measels  und  der  mumbs, 
Und  eferyding  dot's  oudt; 


LEEDLE  YAIVCOB  STRAUSS. 


He  sbills  mine  glass  ob  lager  bier, 

Poots  schnuff  indo  mine  kraut; 

He  fills  mine  pipe  mit  Limburg  cheese — 

Dot  vos  der  roughest  chouse. 

I'd  dake  dot  vrom  no  oder  poy 

But  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  dakes  der  milk-ban  for  a  dhrum, 

Und  cuts  mine  cane  in  dwo 

To  make  der  schticks  to  beat  it  mit — 

Mine  cracious,  dot  vas  drue! 

I  dinks  mine  head  vas  schplit  abart  . 

He  kicks  oup  such  a  touse; 

But  nefer  mind,  der  poys  was  few 

Like  dot  young  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  asks  me  questions  sooch  as  dese — 

Who  baints  mine  nose  so  red? 

Who  vas  it  cuts  dot  schmoodth  blace  out 

Vrom  der  hair  ubon  mine  hed? 

Und  vhere  der  plaze  goes  vrom  der  lamp 

Vene'er  der  glim  I  douse? 

How  gan  I  all  dese  dings  eggsblain 

To  dot  schmall  Yawcob  Strauss? 

I  somedimes  dink  I  schall  go  vild 

Mit  sooch  a  grazy  poy, 

Und  vish  vonce  more  I  gould  have  rest 

Und  beaceful  dimes  enshoy. 

But  ven  he  vas  ashleep  in  ped, 

So  quiet  as  a  mouse, 

I  brays  der  Lord,  "  Dake  anydings, 

But  leaf  dot  Yawcob  Strauss." 

Charles  F.  Adams. 


A  PICTURE. 


A  PICTURE. 


The  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair 

Smoking  his  pipe  of  clay, 
While  his  hale  old  wife,  with  busy  care, 

Was  clearing  the  dinner  away; 
A  sweet  little  girl  with  fine  blue  eyes, 
On  her  grandfather's  knee  was  catching  flies. 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  on  her 
head, 

With  a  tear  on  his  wrinkled 
face; 

He  thought  how  often  her  mother 
dead 

Had  sat  in  the  self-same  place. 
As  the  tear  stole  down  from  his 

half-shut  eye, 
"Don't  smoke,"  said  the  child, 

"how  it  makes  you  cry!" 

The  house-dog  lay  stretched  out 
on  the  floor, 
Where  the  shade  after  noon 
used  to  steal; 

The  busy  old  wife,  by  the  open  dooi 

Was  turning  the  spinning  wheel; 
An'  the  old  brass  clock  on  the  mantel-tree 
Had  plodded  along  to  almost  three. 

Still  the  farmer  sat  in  his  easy  chair, 
While  close  to  his  heaving  breast 

The  moistened  brow  and  the  cheek  so  fair 
Of  his  sweet  grandchild  were  prest; 

His  head,  bent  down,  on  her  soft  hair  lay: 

Fast  asleep  were  they  both  that  summer  day 


LITTLE  AGNES'  MISTAKE. 


i56 


TWO  FISHERS. 


THE  CHILD  MUSICIAN. 

He  had  played  for  his  lordship's  levee, 
He  had  played  for  her  ladyship's  whim, 

Till  the  poor  little  head  was  heavy, 
And  the  poor  little  brain  would  swim. 

And  the  face  grew  peaked  and  eerie, 
And  the  large  eyes  strange  and  bright, 

And  they  said,  too  late,  "He  is  weary! 
He  shall  rest  for,  at  least,  to-night !" 

But  at  dawn,  when  the  birds  were  waking, 

As  they  watched  in  the  silent  room, 
With  the  sound  of  a  strained  chord  breaking, 

A  something  snapped  in  the  gloom. 

Twas  the  string  of  his  violoncello, 

And  they  heard  him  stir  in  his  bed ; 
"Make  room  for  a  tired  little  fellow, 

Dear  God  !"  was  the  last  that  he  said. 

Austin  Dobsgn. 


TWO  FISHERS. 

One  morning  when  Spring  was  in  her  teens- 

A  morn  to  a  poet's  wishing, 
All  tinted  in  delicate  pinks  and  greens — 

Miss  Bessie  and  I  went  fishing. 

I  in  my  rough  and  easy  clothes, 
With  my  face  at  the  sun-tan's  mercy ; 

She  with  her  hat  tipped  down  to  her  nose, 
And  her  nose  tipped — vice  versa. 


FAMILIAR  TALK. 


I  with  my  rod,  my  reel,  and  my  hooks, 

And  a  hamper  for  lunching  recesses  ; 
She  with  the  bait  of  her  comely  looks, 

And  the  seine  of  her  golden  tresses. 

So  we  sat  us  down  on  the  sunny  dike, 

Where  the  white  pond-lilies  teeter, 
And  I  went  fishing  like  quaint  old  Ike, 

And  she  like  Simon  Peter. 

All  the  noon  I  lay  in  the  light  of  her  eyes, 

And  dreamily  watched  and  waited, 
But  the  fish  were  cunning,  and  would  not  rise, 

And  the  baiter  alone  was  baited. 

And  when  the  time  of  departure  came, 

My  bag  hung  flat  as  a  flounder ; 
But  Bessie  had  neatly  hooked  her  game — 

A  hundred-and-fifty  pounder. 

Harper's  Weekly. 


FAMILIAR  TALK. 

The  kettle  began  it!  Don't  tell  me  what  Mrs.  Perry birhgle  said;  1 
know  better.  Mrs.  Perrybingle  may  leave  it  on  record  till  the  end  of 
time  that  she  couldn't  say  which  of  them  began  it,  but  I  say  the  kettle 
did;  I  ought  to  know,  I  hope. 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh  as  boyhood  can! 

O,  the  spring,  the  beautiful  spring! 
She  shineth  and  smileth  on  everything. 


FAMILIAR  TALK, 

Ho,  ho!  ha,  ha!  the  merry  fire! 
It  sputters  and  it  crackles! 

Snap,  snap!  flash,  flash! 

Old  oak  and  ash 
Send  out  a  million  sparkles. 

Tis  education  forms  the  common  mind; 
Just  as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree's  inclined. 
On  a  bridge  1  was  standing,  one  morning, 

And  watching  the  current  roll  by, 
When  suddenly  into  the  water 

There  fell  an  unfortunate  fly. 

"Ho!  ho!" 
Said  the  crow; 
"So  I'm  not  s'posed  to  know 
Where  the  rye  and  the  wheat 
And  the  corn-kernels  grow — 

Oh!  no! 

Ho!  ho! 

He!  he! 
Farmer  Lee, 

When  I  fly  from  my  tree, 
Just  you  see  where  the  tops 
Of  the  corn-ears  will  be; 

Watch  me! 

He!  he!" 

Switch-swirch, 

With  a  lurch, 
Flopped  the  bird  from  his  perch, 

As  hfe  spread  out  his  wings 
And  set  forth  on  his  search — 

His  search — 

Switch-swirch. 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  RESOLVE. 


Click!  bang! 

How  it  rang; 
How  the  small  bullet  sang, 

As  it  sped  through  the  air — 
And  the  crow,  with  a  pang, 

Went  spang, 

Chi-bang! 

Now  know, 
That  to  crow 
Often  brings  one  to  woe; 
And  so, 
Don't  crow! 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  RESOLVE. 

Good-bye,  old  year.    You  might,  perhaps, 
Have  treated  me  a  little  better. 

You  might  have  softened  some  hard  raps, 
You  might  have  eased  up  on  some  better. 

And  yet  if  I'd  bestowed  more  thought, 
Had  tasted  more  of  self  denial, 

More  happiness  I  might  have  bought, 
And  stronger  might  I  be  for  trial. 

If  I'd  return  but  half  the  bliss 
That  others  gave  me  for  my  folly, 

I  would  not  now  feel  so  amiss, 

And  steeped  in  New  Year's  melancholy. 

Had  I  repaid  in  golden  grains 
Of  charity,  so  much  of  kindness, 

I  might  not  now  have  mental  pains 
Upbraiding  me  for  all  my  blindness. 


i6o 


WHAT  HE  SAID. 


Therefore,  resolved,  I'll  start  anew 
(I'll  try  how  sweet  unselfish  bliss  is) 

To  pay  my  debts  (I  mean  it,  too) ; 
I'll  take  right  back  to  Maud  her  kisses. 

Tom  Masson. 


WHAT  HE  SAID. 

'The  wife  for  me,"  said  he,  said  he, 

As  he  gave  his  moustache  a  curl, 
With  a  look  that  he  meant  should  be  eloquent, 

"Is  the  good  old-fashioned  girl. 
The  girl  who  wakes  when  the  morning  breaks 

As  fresh  as  the  dew  is  sweet, 
Who  bread  can  make,  or  broil  a  steak 

Fit  for  a  man  to  eat. 

"She  must  be  wise  to  economize — " 

As  he  lighted  a  cigarette — 
Pretty  and  neat  from  head  to  feet, 

With  a  horror  of  waste  or  debt. 
For  economy,"  said  he,  said  he, 

"Of  virtues  the  very  pearl, 
Was  always  found  to  well  abound 

In  the  good  old-fashioned  girl. 

"Pure  must  she  be,"  said  he,  said  he, 

"As  the  snow,  and  all  the  while, 
Must  be  warm  and  true  as  the  skies  are  blue, 

With  a  soul  that  is  free  from  guile. 
And  she  must  give  me,"  said  he,  said  he, 

As  he  gave  his  cane  a  twirl, 
"The  whole,  not  part,  of  her  loving  heart, 

Like  a  good  old-fashioned  girl." 


WHAT  SHE  SAID. 

"And  yet,  and  yet,  I  should  much  regret, 

If  learning  she  lacked,  or  wit; 
If  she  could  not  unite  quick  thought  and  bright 

With  speech  that  was  fair  and  fit. 
For  of  course  you  see,"  said  he,  said  he, 

"It  would  put  me  to  open  scorn, 
If  anywhere  she  should  lack  the  air 

Of  one  to  the  manner  born. 

"Yes,  this,"  said  he,  "is  the  wife  for  me, 

I've  quite  made  up  my  mind; 
But  when  shall  I  see  the  face,"  said  he, 

"Of  the  girl  that  I  fain  would  find?" 
A  glance  he  bent  that  he  vainly  meant 

Should  set  her  true  heart  awhirl, 
As  he  asked  again,  "O  tell  me  when, 

When  will  I  find  this  girl  ?" 

WHAT  SHE  SAID. 

"When  will  you  find  this  girl,"  said  she, 

"This  girl  whom  you  call  old  fashioned, 
This  marvel  of  muscle  and  heart  and  head, 

Practical,  shy,  impassioned  ? 
I  do  not  know,  but  I  think  you  can, 

If  faithful  and  fond  your  trying, 
About  the  time  that  I  find  the  man 

For  whom  my  soul  is  sighing. 

"When  I  find  that  wonder  of  manhood 

Who  can  rise  when  the  day  is  breaking 
And  saw  and  split  and  bring  in  the  wood 

For  the  good  wife's  daily  baking. 
Who  can  build  the  fire,  the  field  can  plow, 

Can  sow  the  grain  and  reap  it; 
Who  having  gold  in  his  purse  knows  how 

Wisely  to  keep  and  use  it. 


i <*2  THAT  LINE  FENCE. 

"Who  can  buy  and  sell  and  just  as  well 

Paint  pictures  or  write  a  sermon; 
And  then  at  night  with  the  season's  belle, 

With  gay  step  lead  the  german. 
Whose  speech  is  brave  and  pure  and  sweet, 

Swift  confidence  compelling, 
Whose  true  heart  is  a  temple  meet 

For  love's  supreme  indwelling. 

"I  think  you  will  find — so  I  should  judge — 

Your  pattern  of  love  and  duty, 
Your  cook  and  laundress  and  household  drudge, 

Yet  the  lady  of  grace  and  beauty, 
About  the  time — or  my  judgment  errs — 

When  I  find— by  his  own  confessing — 
The  man  who  can  match  each  gift  of  hers, 

With  those  of  his  own  possessing." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "what  a  fool  I've  been!" 

She  smiled  in  a  sweet  agreeing, 
"There's  been  a  wonderful  light  let  in 

Somehow  on  my  mental  being; 
I'll  cease  my  search  for  the  girl,"  said  he, 

"And  thanks  for  your  just  reminder." 
I  think  'tis  the  thing  to  do,"  said  she, 

"Until  you  are  fit  to  find  her." 

Carlotta  Perry. 


THAT  LINE  FENCE. 

Old  Farmer  Smith  came  home  in  a  miff 

From  his  field  the  other  day, 
While  his  sweet  little  wife,  the  pride  of  his  life, 

At  her  whe^l  was  spinning  away. 


LITTLE  FINGERS. 

fSY  little  fingers, 
Everywhere  they  go, 
sy  little  ringers, 
The  sweetest  that  I  know. 

w  into  my  work-box, 
111  the  buttons  finding, 
^ngling  up  the  knitting, 
ivery  spool  unwinding. 

I  w  into  the  basket, 
rVhere  the  keys  are  hidde 
mischievous  looking, 
knowing  it  forbidden. 

en  in  mother's  tre«ses, 
Wow  her  neck  enfolding, 

th  such  sweet  caresses, 
1  keeping  off  the  scolding. 

rling  little  fingers, 
.tfever,  never  still; 
ke  them,  Heavenly  Fathe 
)ne  day  do  Thy  will. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THAT  LINE  FENCE. 


And  ever  anon  a  gay  little  song 
With  the  buzz  of  her  wheel  kept  time  ; 

And  his  wrathful  brow  is  clearing  now, 
Under  her  cheerful  rhyme. 

"Come,  come,  little  Turk,  put  away  your  work, 

And  listen  to  what  I  say : 
What  can  I  do,  but  a  quarrel  brew 

With  the  man  across  the  way  ? 

"  i  have  built  my  fence,  but  he  won't  commence 

To  lay  a  single  rail ; 
His  cattle  get  in,  and  the  feed  gets  thin, — 

I  am  tempted  to  make  a  sale  !" 

"Why,  John,  dear  John,  how  you  do  go  on ! 

I'm  afraid  it  will  be  as  they  say." 
"No,  no,  little  wife,  I  have  heard  that  strife 

In  a  lawyer's  hands  don't  pay. 

"  He  is  picking  a  flaw,  to  drive  me  to  law, 

I  am  told  that  he  said  he  would, — 
And  you  know,  long  ago,  law  wronged  me  so, 
I  vowed  that  I  never  should. 

"So  what  can  I  do,  that  I  will  not  rue, 

To  the  man  across  the  way  ?" 
"If  that's  what  you  want,  I  can  help  you  haunt 

That  man  with  a  spectre  gray. 

"Thirty  dollars  will  do  to  carry  you  through, 
And  then  you  have  gained  a  neighbor ; 

It  would  cost  you  more  to  peep  in  the  door 
Of  a  court,  and  as  much  more  labor. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  AND  THE  POOR  WOMAN. 


"  Just  use  your  good  sense — let's  build  him  a  fence, 
And  shame  bad  acts  out  of  the  fellow." 

They  built  up  his  part,  and  sent  to  his  heart 
Love's  dart,  where  the  good  thoughts  mellow. 

That  very  same  night,  by  the  candle  light, 

They  opened  with  interest  a  letter : 
Not  a  word  was  there,  but  three  greenbacks  fair, 

Said,  the  man  was  growing  better. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  AND  THE  POOR  WOMAN. 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  President," 

A  timid  woman  said, 
A  poor  and  tidy  gown  she  wore, 

And  on  her  whitening  head 
A  bonnet,  faded  as  her  hair, 
But  comely  still,  with  decent  care. 

Around,  on  costly  couches,  sat 

Statesmen  of  high  degree, 
And,  conscious  of  their  greatness,  she 

Stood  back  most  patiently, 
Till  some  coarse  menial,  with  a  smile, 
Whispered  that  she  must  wait  awhile- 
Then  muttered  "green,"  with  many  a  wink, 

Till  every  glance  was  turned 
On  the  poor  woman,  gray  and  old, 

While  hot  her  thin  cheeks  burned 
With  wounded  feelings,  griefs  and  fears, 
And  her  dim  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  AND  THE  POOR  WOMAN, 


And  still  the  hours  rolled  onward— still 
The  mighty  came  and  went — 

But  all  neglected  stood  the  dame, 
Nor  saw  the  President; 

While  those  whom  fortune  favors  told 

Their  pompous  tales  of  fame  and  gold. 

And  so  the  sun  came  fainter  down 

Upon  the  brilliant  floor; 
The  aged  woman  started  at 

The  opening  of  a  door, 
And  one  who  caught  her  haggard  eye 
All  sudden  stopped,  through  sympathy. 

"Oh,  sir,"  she  said,  "these  many  hours 

I've  waited  patiently; 
Perhaps  the  President  cannot 

Be  seen  by  such  as  I; 
I'm  poor,  and  old,  and  careworn,  too, 
And  he  has  burdens  not  a  few." 

The  stranger  turned— a  sudden  light 

Seemed  kindled  in  his  eye; 
He  spoke  with  kindly  tone  and  mien, 

With  gentle  gravity — 
"They  should  have  sent  you  in  to  me 
Before  they  did  the  rest,"  said  he. 

The  old  dame  flushed  with  quick  surprise, 

Was  this  the  nation's  chief? 
This  grave,  tall  man,  who,  pitying,  said, 

"Come — tell  me  all  your  grief, 
The  poor  and  needy  never  went, 
Unaided  from  the  President." 


THE  MAGICAL  ISLE. 


She  told  her  simple  tale— he  heard 

With  royal  gentleness; 
Then,  as  her  wrongs  his  interest  woke, 

He  promised  her  redress; 
And,  gazing  on  the  silvered  head, 
He  smiled  to  see  her  comforted. 

"Thank  God!"  and  freely  fell  her  tears; 

"Our  land  is  blest,"  she  said, 
"  When  one  who  honors  poverty 

Stands  nobly  at  its  head. 
If  an  old  woman's  benison  be 
Of  any  weight  or  worth  to  thee, 

"I  give  it,  from  a  grateful  heart, 

And  Heaven  will  surely  hear. 
God  bless  thee,  Abraham  Lincoln — bless 

All  that  thou  holdest  dear, 
And  make  thee  glorious  in  the  land 
Now  smitten  by  the  oppressor's  hand. 

And  make  thee  strong  to  dare  to  do, 
Even  though  the  proud  condemn, 

And  keep  thee  honest,  brave  and  true, 
Till  thou  hast  conquered  them; 

And  ere  thou  diest  thou  shalt  see 

Through  God's  good  grace,  a  nation  free/' 


THE  MAGICAL  ISLE. 

There's  a  magical  isle  in  the  river  of  Time, 

Where  softest  of  echoes  are  straying  ; 
And  the  air  is  as  soft  as  a  musical  chime, 
Or  the  exquisite  breath  of  a  tropical  clime 
When  June  with  its  roses  is  swaying. 


THE  MAGICAL  ISLE.  169 

Tis  where  Memory  dwells  with  her  pure  golden  hue, 

And  music  forever  is  flowing  : 
While  the  low-murmured  tones  that  come  trembling  through 
Sadly  trouble  the  heart,  yet  sweeten  it  too, 

As  the  south  wind  o'er  water  when  blowing. 

There  are  shadowy  halls  in  that  fairy-like  isle, 

Where  pictures  of  beauty  are  gleaming ; 
Yet  the  light  of  their  eyes,  and  their  sweet,  sunny  smile, 
Only  flash  round  the  heart  with  a  wildering  wile, 

And  leave  us  to  know  'tis  but  dreaming. 

And  the  name  of  this  isle  is  the  Beautiful  Past, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  all  there  : 
There  are  beings  of  beauty,  too  lovely  to  last ; 
There  are  blossoms  of  snow,  with  the  dust  o'er  them  cast ; 

There  are  tresses  and  ringlets  of  hair, 

There  are  fragments  of  song  only  memory  sings, 
And  the  words  of  a  dear  mother  s  prayer ; 

There's  a  harp  long  unsought,  and  a  lute  without  strings- 
Hallowed  tokens  that  love  used  to  wear. 

E'en  the  dead, — the  bright,  beautiful  dead— there  arise, 

With  their  soft,  flowing  ringlets  of  gold  : 
Though  their  voices  are  hushed,  and  o'er  their  sweet  eyes, 
The  unbroken  signet  of  silence  now  lies, 

They  are  with  us  again,  as  of  old. 

In  the  stillness  of  night,  hands  are  beckoning  us  there, 

And,  with  joy  that  is  almost  a  pain, 
We  delight  to  turn  back,  and  in  wandering  there, 
Through  the  shadowy  halls  of  the  island  so  fair, 

We  behold  our  lost  treasures  again. 


WILD  WEATHER  OUTSIDE. 


Oh !  this  beautiful  isle,  with  its  phantom-like  show, 

Is  a  vista  exceedingly  bright : 
And  the  River  of  Time,  in  its  turbulent  flow, 
Is  oft  soothed  by  the  voices  we  heard  long  ago, 

When  the  years  were  a  dream  of  delight. 


WILD  WEATHER  OUTSIDE. 

Wild  weather  outside  where  the  brave  ships  go, 

And  fierce  from  all  quarters  the  four  winds  blow, — 

Wild  weather  and  cold,  and  the  great  waves  swell, 

With  chasms  beneath  them  as  black  as  hell. 

The  waters  frolic  in  Titan  play, 

They  dash  the  decks  with  an  icy  spray, 

The  spent  sails  shiver,  the  lithe  masts  reel, 

And  the  sheeted  ropes  are  as  smooth  as  steel. 

And  oh,  that  the  sailors  were  safe  once  more, 

Where  the  sweet  wife  smiles  in  the  cottage  door. 

The  little  cottage,  it  shines  afar 

O'er  the  lurid  seas,  like  the  polar  star. 

The  mariner  tossed  in  the  jaws  of  death 

Hurls  at  the  storm  a  defiant  breath; 

Shouts  to  his  mates  through  the  rising  foam, 

"Courage!  please  God,  we  shall  yet  win  homer 

Frozen  and  haggard,  and  wan  and  gray, 

But  resolute  still,  'tis  the  sailor's  way. 

And  perhaps — at  the  fancy  the  stern  eyes  dim — 

Somebody  is  praying  to-night  for  him. 

Ah,  me,  through  the  drench  of  the  bitter  rain, 
How  bright  the  picture  that  rises  plain ! 
Sure  he  can  see,  with  her  merry  look, 
His  little  maid  crooning  her  spelling-book; 


WHERE  ARE  WICKED  FOLKS  BURIED? 


171 


The  baby  crows  from  the  cradel  fair; 
The  grandam  nods  in  her  easy  chair; 
While  hither  and  yon,  with  a  quiet  grace, 
A  woman  flits,  with  an  earnest  face. 

The  kitten  purrs,  and  the  kettle  sings, 

And  a  nameless  comfort  the  picture  brings. 

Rough  weather  outside,  but  the  winds  of  balm 

Forever  float  o'er  that  Isle  of  Calm, 

Oh,  friends  who  read  over  tea  and  toast 

Of  the  wild  night's  work  on  the  storm-swept  coast, 

Think,  when  the  vessels  are  overdue, 

Of  the  perilous  voyage,  the  baffled  crew, 

Of  stout  hearts  battling  for  love  and  home, 

'Mid  the  cruel  blasts  and  curdling  foam, 

And  breathe  a  prayer  from  your  happy  lips 

For  those  who  must  go  "to  the  sea  in  ships;" 

Ask  that  the  sailor  may  stand  once  more 

Where  the  sweet  wife  smiles  in  the  cottage  door. 

Margaret  E.  Sangster. 


WHERE  ARE  WICKED  FOLKS  BURIED? 

"Tell  me,  gray-headed  sexton,"  I  said, 
"Where  in  this  field  are  the  wicked  folks  laid? 
I  have  wandered  the  quiet  old  graveyard  through, 
And  studied  the  epitaphs,  old  and  new; 
But  on  monument,  obelisk,  pillar  or  stone 
I  read  of  no  evil  that  men  have  done." 

The  old  sexton  stood  by  a  grave  newly  made, 
With  his  chin  on  his  hand,-  and  his  hand  on  a  spade; 
I  knew  by  the  gleam  of  his  eloquent  eye 
That  his  heart  was  instructing  his  lips  to  reply: 


*72 


AS  JACOB  SERVED  FOR  RACHEL. 


"Who  is  to  judge  when  the  soul  takes  its  flight? 
Who  is  to  judge  'twixt  the  wrong  and  the  right? 
Which  of  us  mortals  shall  dare  to  say 
That  our  neighbor  was  wicked  who  died  to-day. 

"In  our  journey  through  life,  the  farther  we  speed 
The  better  we  learn  that  humanity's  need 
Is  charity's  spirit,  that  prompts  us  to  find 
Rather  virtue  than  vice  in  the  lives  of  our  kind. 

"Therefore,  good  deeds  we  record  on  these  stones; 
The  evil  men  do,  let  it  die  with  their  bones. 
I  have  labored  as  sexton  this  many  a  year, 
But  I  never  have  buried  a  bad  man  here." 


AS  JACOB  SERVED  FOR  RACHEL 

'Twas  the  love  that  lightened  service  I 

The  old,  old  story  sweet 
That  yearning  lips  and  waiting  hearts 

In  melody  repeat. 
As  Jacob  served  for  Rachel 

Beneath  the  Syrian  sky, 
Like  golden  sands  that  swiftly  drop, 

The  toiling  years  went  by. 

Chill  fell  the  dews  upon  him, 

Fierce  smote  the  sultry  sun  ; 
But  what  were  cold  or  heat  to  him, 

Till  that  dear  wife  was  won  ! 
The  angels  whispered  in  his  ear, 

44 Be  patient  and  be  strong!" 
And  the  thought  of  her  he  waited  for 

Was  ever  like  a  song. 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  (IF  ILLHIOIS 


e 


AS  JACOB  SERVED  FOR  RACHEL. 

Sweet  Rachel,  with  the  secret 

To  hold  a  brave  man  leal ; 
To  keep  him  through  the  changeful  years,, 

Her  own  in  woe  and  weal ; 
So  that  in  age  and  exile, 

The  death  damp  on  his  face, 
Her  name  to  the  dark  valley  lent 

Its  own  peculiar  grace. 

And  "There  1  buried  Rachel," 

He  said  of  that  lone  spot 
In  Ephrath,  near  to  Bethlehem, 

Where  the  wife  he  loved  was  not ; 
For  God  had  taken  from  him 

The  brightness  and  the  zest, 
And  the  heaven  above  thenceforward  kept 

In  fee  his  very  best. 

Of  th?  love  that  lightens  service, 

Dear  God,  how  much  we  see, 
When  the  father  toils  the  lifelong  day 

For  the  children  at  his  knee  ; 
When  all  night  long  the  mother  wakes, 

Nor  deems  the  vigil  hard, 
The  rose  of  health  on  the  sick  one's  cheek 

Her  happy  heart's  reward. 

Of  the  love  that  lightens  service 

The  fisherman  can  tell, 
When  he  wrests  the  bread  his  dear  ones  eat 

Where  the  bitter  surges  swell ; 
And  the  farmer  in  the  furrow, 

The  merchant  in  the  mart, 
Count  little  worth  their  weary  toil 

For  the  treasures  of  their  heart. 


THE  BROWNIES'  XMAS. 


And,  reverently  we  say  it, 

Dear  Lord,  on  bended  knee, 
For  the  love  that  lightened  service  most 

The  pattern  is  with  Thee. 
Oh,  the  love,  the  love  of  Heaven, 

That  bowed  our  load  to  bear  ; 
The  love  that  mounted  to  the  cross, 

And  saved  the  sinner  there  ! 

What  shall  we  give  ?    How  offer 

Our  small  returns,  to  tell 
That  we  have  seen  the  Saviour, 

And  are  fain  to  serve  Him  well  ? 
Take,  Lord,  our  broken  spirits, 

And  have  them  for  Thine  own  ; 
And  as  the  bridegroom  with  the  bride, 

Reign  Thou,  with  us  alone. 

As  Jacob  served  for  Rachel 

Beneath  the  Syrian  sky  ; 
And  the  golden  sands  of  toiling  years 

Went  sailing  swiftly  by, 
The  thought  of  her  was  music 

To  cheer  his  weary  feet; 
Twas  love  that  lightened  service, 

The  old,  old  story  sweet. 


THE  BROWNIES'  XMAS. 

The  Brownie  who  lives  in  the  forest, 
Oh,  the  Christmas  bells  they  ringl 

He  has  done  for  the  farmer's  children 
Full  many  a  kindly  thing: 


THE  BROWNIES'  XMAS. 


177 


When  their  cows  were  lost  in  the  gloaming 
He  has  driven  them  safely  home; 

He  has  led  their  bees  to  the  flowers, 
To  fill  up  their  golden  comb; 

At  her  spinning  the  little  sister 
Had  napped  till  the  setting  sun — 

She  awoke,  and  the  kindly  Brownie 
Had  gotten  it  neatly  done; 

Oh,  the  Christmas  bells  they  are  ringing! 

The  mother  she  was  away, 
And  the  Brownie'd  played  with  the  baby 

And  tended  it  all  the  day; 

Tis  true  that  his  face  they  never 
For  all  their  watching  could  see; 

Yet  who  else  did  the  kindly  service, 
I  pray,  if  it  were  not  he  I 

But  the  poor  little  friendly  Brownie, 

His  life  was  a  weary  thing; 
For  never  had  he  been  in  holy  church 

And  heard  the  children  sing; 

And  never  had  he  had  a  Christmas; 

Nor  had  bent  in  prayer  his  knee; 
He  had  lived  for  a  thousand  years, 

And  all  weary-worn  was  he. 

Or  that  was  the  story  the  children 
Had  heard  at  their  mothers  side; 

And  together  they  talked  it  over, 
One  merry  Christmas-tide. 


THE  BROWNIES '  XMAS. 


The  pitiful  little  sister 
With  her  braids  of  paly  gold, 

And  the  little  elder  brother, 
And  the  darling  five-year-old, 

All  stood  in  the  western  window — 
Twas  toward  the  close  of  day — 

And  they  talked  about  the  Brownie 
While  resting  from  their  play. 

"  The  Brownie,  he  has  no  Christmas," 

The  dear  little  sister  said, 
And  a-shaking  as  she  spoke 

Her  glossy,  yellow  head; 

"The  Brownie,  he  has  no  Christmas; 

While  so  many  gifts  have  we, 
To  the  floor  last  night  they  bended 

The  boughs  of  the  Christmas-tree." 

Then  the  little  elder  brother, 

He  spake  up  in  his  turn, 
With  both  of  his  blue  eyes  beaming, 

While  his  cheeks  began  to  burn: 

"Let  us  do  up  for  the  Brownie 

A  Christmas  bundle  now, 
And  leave  it  in  the  forest  pathway 

Where  the  great  oak  branches  bow. 

"Well  mark  it,  Tor  the  Brownie/ 
And  'a  Merry  Christmas  Day!' 

And  sure  will  he  be  to  find  it, 
For  he  goeth  home  that  way." 


THE  BROWNIES'  XMAS. 


179 


Then  the  tender  little  sister 
With  her  braids  of  paly  gold, 

And  the  little  elder  brother, 
And  the  darling  five-year  old, 

Tied  up  in  a  little  bundle 
Some  toys,  with  a  loving  care, 

And  marked  it  "For  the  Brownie," 
In  letters  large  and  fair, 

And  "We  wish  a  Merry  Christmas!" 

And  then,  in  the  dusk,  the  three 
Went  to  the  wood  and  left  it 

Under  the  great  oak  tree. 

While  the  farmer's  fair  little  children 
Slept  sweet  on  that  Christmas  night, 

Two  wanderers  through  the  forest 
Game  in  the  clear  moonlight, 

And  neither  one  was  the  Brownie, 

But  sorry  were  both  as  he; 
And  their  hearts  with  each  fresh  footstep, 

Were  aching  steadily. 

A  slender  man  with  an  organ 
Strapped  on  by  a  leathern  band, 

And  a  girl  with  a  tambourine 
A-holding  close  to  his  hand. 

And  the  girl  with  a  tambourine, 

Big  sorrowful  eyes  she  had, 
In  the  cold  white  wood  she  shivered 

In  her  ragged  raiment  clad. 


THE  BROWNIES'  XMAS. 


"  And  what  is  there  here  to  do  ?"  she  said; 

"  I'm  froze  i'  the  light  o'  the  moon ! 
Shall  we  play  to  these  sad  old  forest  trees, 

Some  merry  and  jigging  tune  ? 

''And,  father,  you  know  it  is  Christmas-time, 

And  had  we  stayed  i'  the  town, 
And  I  gone  to  one  o'  the  Christmas-trees, 

A  gift  might  have  fallen  down ! 

"You  cannot  certainly  know  it  would  not! 

I'd  ha'  gone  right  under  the  tree ! 
Are  you  sure  that  none  o'  the  Christmases 

Were  meant  for  you  or  me  ?" 

"These  dry  dead  leaves,''  he  answered  her,  sad, 

"  Which  the  forest  casteth  down, 
Are  more  than  you'd  get  from  a  Christmas-tree 

In  the  merry  and  thoughtless  town. 

"Though  to-night  be  Christ's  own  birthday  night, 

And  all  the  world  hath  grace, 
There  is  not  a  home  in  all  the  world 

Which  holdeth  for  us  a  place/' 

Slow  plodding  adown  the  forest  path, 

"And  now,  what  is  this?"  he  said ; 
And  the  children's  bundle  he  lifted  up, 

And  "  For  the  Brownie,"  read. 

And  "We  wish  a  Merry  Christmas  Day  I" 

"  Now  if  this  be  done,"  said  he, 
"  Somewhere  in  the  world  perhaps  there  is 

A  place  for  you  and  me  !" 


THE  BROWNIES '  XMAS. 


1S1 


And  the  bundle  he  opened  softly  : 
"This  is  children's  tender  thought ; 

Their  own  little  Christmas  presents 
They  have  to  Brownie  brought. 

"  If  there  liveth  such  tender  pity 
Toward  a  thing  so  dim  and  low, 

There  is  kindness  sure  remaining 
Of  which  I  did  not  know. 

"Oh  children,  there's  never  a  Brownie— 

That  sorry  uncanny  thing  ; 
But  nearest  and  next  are  the  homeless 

When  the  Christmas  joy-bells  ring.'' 

Out  laughed  the  little  daughter, 
And  she  gathered  the  toys  with  glee , 

"My  Christmas  present  has  fallen  ! 
This  oak  was  my  Christmas-tree  P 

Then  away  they  went  through  the  forest, 
The  wanderers,  hand  in  hand  ; 

And  the  snow,  they  were  both  so  merry, 
It  glinted  like  golden  sand. 

Down  the  forest  the  elder  brother, 
In  the  morning  clear  and  cold, 

Came  leading  the  little  sister, 
And  the  darling  five-year-old. 

"  Oh,"  he  cries,  "  he's  taken  the  bundle  !" 

As  carefully  round  he  peers  ; 
"  And  the  Brownie  has  gotten  a  Christmas 

After  a  thousand  years  I" 


l82 


AIR  CASTLES. 


AIR  CASTLES. 

A  girl  is  standing  with  careless  feet 
At  the  point  where  the  brook  and  the  river  meet; 
In  her  eyes  there  gleams  a  lambent  fire 
As  the  castle  she's  building,  towers  higher. 
"  I  will  earn,"  said  she  to  herself,  "a  name 
That  will  make  the  world  acknowledge  its  fame; 
On  my  head  shall  be  placed  the  laurel  crown 
That  the  Muses  wreathe  for  their  favored  own; 
I  will  visit  the  lands  of  story  and  song; 
In  the  palace  of  Genius  Fll  tarry  long. 
There  will  come  to  me  a  lover  as  bold 
And  as  strong  as  the  fabled  princes  of  old; 
And  in  his  brave  heart  the  first  I'll  be, 
For  true  beauty  and  grace  in  me  he'll  see. 
Thus  smooth  shall  I  weave  my  web  of  life, 
With  love  to  untangle  its  cares  and  strife." 

In  a  vine-wreathed  casement  stands  a  bride; 

Her  brown  eyes  shine  with  loving  pride 

As  afar  she  sees  the  manly  form 

Of  the  one  whose  heart  for  her  beats  warm. 

And  she  dreams  a  dream  as  she  waits  him  there 

Which  more  than  a  poem,  is  even  a  prayer; 

And  the  angel  Sandalphon  wafts  it  on 

Till  it  reaches  up  to  the  great  white  throne. 

"  I  care  not  for  princes  of  olden  story, 

Nor  for  palaces  grand,  nor  for  fame  or  glory; 

But  give  me  a  cot  with  its  vine-clad  door 

And  the  glinting  sunshine  warm  on  the  floor, 

With  the  dear  ones'  voices  when  day  is  done, 

And  its  duties  are  ended,  one  by  one. 


fif  THE 


AIR  CASTLES. 


All  these  will  be  dearer  by  far  to  me 
Than  the  castles  I  dreamed  of  once  could  be. 
And  many  a  crown  come  to  me  unsought 
That  by  love's  labors  shall  be  wrought; 
This  sphere  in  life  is  the  one  I  would  fill, — 
A  faithful  wife,  through  good  and  ill." 

A  mother  is  sitting  with  busy  hand 

At  the  door  where  the  bride's  fair  face  was  fanned 

By  the  long  ago  breezes  that  came  through  the  vine 

Which  had  clambered  there,  and  doth  still  entwine 

The  door,  where  now  children  with  busy  feet 

Pass  in  and  out:  and  their  voices  sweet 

Ring  loud  and  clear  on  the  evening  air, 

To  greet  the  mother  who  toileth  there. 

The  work  drops  out  of  her  hands  so  worn, 

And  a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes  is  born, 

While  her  thoughts  go  back  to  the  time  passed  by, 

When  her  girlhood's  castles  loomed  so  high. 

With  a  sigh  she  says  to  herself,  "  For  me 

No  crown  awaits  from  the  laurel  tree, 

But  in  my  children  my  life  I  live, 

And  'tis  sweeter  far  than  fame  could  give." 

Her  eyes  grow  bright  again  with  joy 

As  she  dreams  of  a  crown  for  her  darling  boy. 

And  she  murmurs,  "Ah,  me!  'tis  better  so, 

That  the  web  of  my  life  such  a  pattern  should  grow. 

The  grandam  sits  in  her  easy  chair 

With  the  sunlight  soft  on  her  silver  hair, 

And  thus  she  speaks  to  the  bonny  throng 

Of  maidens  fair,  and  youths  so  strong, 

Who  have  gathered  about  her  to  heed  the  thought 

Of  wisdom  that  comes  to  a  long  life  fraught 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  DOCTRINE. 


With  happy  faith,  and  with  loving  deeds 

For  each  whose  path  such  comfort  needs. 

"In  the  days  of  our  youth  our  dreams  are  bright, 

For  life  is  filled  with  spring-time  light, 

And  we  build  gay  castles  with  towers  grand, 

With  self  as  the  monarch  to  rule  the  land. 

But,  my  children  dear,  our  lives  grow  on, 

And  the  castles  fade  out  of  them,  one  by  one. 

But  if  we  obey  the  commandment  golden, 

That  is  told  us  in  language  sweet  and  olden, 

Their  places  will  fill  with  thoughts  like  bea<ns 

From  the  sun,  and  we'll  know  our  castles  were  dreams, 

And  our  lives  will  grow  wider,  and  still  more  wide, 

Till  we  reach  our  home  on  the  'other  side.' " 

The  sweet  voice  stops  and  the  dim  eyes  close, 
To  the  tired  mind  comes  a  dream  of  repose; 
Tis  a  dream  of  heaven  so  clear  and  bright 
That  the  earth  life  is  filled  with  its  glorious  light, 
And  it  brings  the  sweet  call  of  "Peace,  well  done," 
To  the  life  whose  web  for  self  was  begun, 
But  whose  pattern  changed  as  the  years  rolled  on, 
And  was  woven  for  others  at  set  of  sun. 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  DOCTRINE. 

There's  come  a  sing'lar  doctrine,  Sue, 

Into  our  church  to-day  ; 
These  cur'us  words  are  what  the  new 

Young  preacher  had  to  say  : 
That  literal  everlastin'  fire 

Was  mostly  in  our  eye  ; 
That  sinners  dead,  if  they  desire, 

Can  get  another  try  ; 


Wi 

Foi 

"Ii 

Fo 

Ar 

W 

Bi 

A 

B 

T.. 

The 

Fri  I 

An-1 

T 


SI08ITH  JO  All5SV3AI3in 

mi  jo 

AHVHflll  m 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  DOCTRINE. 

He  doubted  if  a  warmer  clime 
Than  this  world  could  be  proved ; 

The  little  snip — I  fear  sometime 
He'll  get  his  doubts  removed. 

I've  watched  my  duty,  straight  an'  true, 

An'  tried  to  do  it  well ; 
Part  of  the  time  kept  heaven  in  view, 

An'  part  steered  clear  o'  hell ; 
An'  now  half  of  this  work  is  naught, 

If  I  must  list  to  him, 
An*  this  'ere  devil  I  have  fought 

Was  only  just  a  whim ; 
Vain  are  the  dangers  I  have  braved, 

The  sacrifice  they  cost ; 
For  what  fun  is  it  to  be  saved, 

If  no  one  else  is  lost  ? 

Just  think! — Suppose,  when  once  I  view 

The  heaven  I  toiled  to  win, 
A  lot  of  unsaved  sinners,  too, 

Come  walkin'  grandly  in  ! 
An'  acts  to  home,  same  as  ff  they 

Had  read  their  titles  clear, 
An'  looks  at  me,  as  if  to  say, 

"  We're  glad  to  see  you  here  f ' 
As  if  to  say,  "While  you  have  b'en 

So  fast  to  toe  the  mark, 
We  waited  till  it  rained,  an'  then 

Got  tickets  for  the  ark  !" 

Yet  there  would  be  some  in  that  crowd 

I'd  rather  like  to  see ; 
My  boy  Jack — it  must  be  allowed, 

There  was  no  worse  than  he  ! 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  DOCTRINE. 

I've  always  felt  somewhat  to  blame, 

In  several  different  ways, 
That  he  lay  down  on  thorns  o'  shame 

To  end  his  boyhood's  days  ; 
An1  Td  be  willin'  to  endure, 

If  that  the  Lord  thought  best, 
A  minute's  quite  hot  temperature, 

To  clasp  him  to  my  breast. 

Old  Captain  Barnes  was  evils  son — 

With  heterodoxy  crammed  ; 
used  to  think  he'd  be  the  one 

If  any  one  was  damned  ; 
Still,  when  I  saw  a  lot  o'  poor, 

That  he  had  clothed  and  fed, 
Cry  desolately  round  his  door 

As  soon  as  he  was  dead, 
There  came  a  thought  I  couldn't  control, 

That  in  some  neutral  land, 
Td  like  to  meet  that  scorched-up  soul, 

An'  shake  it  by  the  hand. 

Poor  Jennie  Willis,  with  a  cry 

Of  hopeless,  sad  distress, 
Sank  sudden  down,  one  night  to  die, 

All  in  her  ballroom  dress ; 
She  had  a  precious  little  while 

To  pack  up  and  away ; 
She  even  left  her  sweet,  good  smile— 

Twas  on  her  face  next  day  ; 
Her  soul  went  off  unclothed  by  even 

One  stitch  of  saving  grace  ; 
How  could  she  hope  to  go  to  heaven, 

An*  start  from  such  a  place  ? 


THE  OLD  FARM  HOME. 

But  once,  when  I  lay  sick  and  weak, 

She  came  and  begged  to  stay ; 
She  kissed  my  faded,  wrinkled  cheek — 

She  soothed  my  pain  away ; 
She  brought  me  sweet  bouquets  of  flowers, 

As  fresh  as  her  young  heart ; 
Through  many  long  and  tedious  hours 

She  played  a  Christian  part; 
An'  ere  I  long  will  stand  aroun' 

The  singing  saints  among, 
Til  try  to  take  some  water  down 

To  cool  poor  Jennie's  tongue. 

But  tears  can  never  quench  my  creed, 

Nor  smooth  God's  righteous  frown, 
Though  all  the  preachers  learn  to  read 

Their  Bibles  upside  down. 
I  hold  mine  right  side  up  with  care 

To  shield  mine  eyes  from  sin, 
An'  coax  the  Lord,  with  daily  prayer, 

To  call  poor  wanderers  in  ; 
But  if  the  sinners  won't  draw  nigh, 

An'  take  salvation's  plan, 
I'll  have  to  stand,  an'  see  'em  try 

To  dodge  hell  if  they  can. 

THE  OLD  FARM  HOME. 

If  you've  been  a  happy  rover 
Through  the  fields  of  fragrant  clover, 

Where  life  is  all  a  simple  round  of  bliss, 
Where  at  eve  the  sun  is  sinking 
And  the  stars  are  faintly  winking, 

You  can  call  to  mind  a  picture  such  as  this: 


190 


THE  MOTHERLESS  TURKEYS. 


Harkl  The  cows  are  homeward  roaming 

Through  the  woodland  pasture's  gloaming, 
I  can  hear  them  gently  lowing  through  the  dells, 

And  from  out  the  bosky  dingle 

Comes  the  softly  tangled  jingle, 
And  the  oft-repeated  echo  of  the  bells. 

Strange  how  memory  will  fling  her 

Arms  about  the  scenes  we  bring  her, 
And  the  fleeting  years  that  make  them  stronger  grow; 

Though  I  wander  far  and  sadly 

From  that  dear  old  home,  how  gladly 
I  recall  the  cherished  scenes  of  long  ago. 

Harkl  The  cows  are  homeward  roaming 

Through  the  woodland's  pasture's  gloaming, 
I  can  hear  them  gently  lowing  through  the  dells, 

And  from  out  the  bosky  dingle 

Comes  the  softly  tangled  jingle 
And  the  oft-repeated  echo  of  the  bells. 

Germantown  Telegraph. 


THE  MOTHERLESS  TURKEYS. 

The  white  turkey  was  deadl  the  white  turkey  was  dead! 

How  the  news  through  the  barnyard  went  flying! 
Of  a  mother  bereft,  four  small  turkeys  were  left, 

And  their  case  for  assistance  was  crying. 

E'en  the  peacock  respectfully  folded  his  tail 

As  a  suitable  symbol  of  sorrow, 
And  his  plainer  wife  said,  "Now  the  old  bird  is  dead, 

Who  will  tend  her  poor  chicks  on  the  morrow?" 


THE  MOTHERLESS  TURKEYS.  191 

"I  have  so  much  to  do!   For  the  bugs  and  the  worms 

In  the  garden  'tis  tiresome  pickin'; 
I  have  nothing  to  spare— for  my  own  I  must  care," 

Said  the  hen  with  one  chicken. 

"How  I  wish,"  said  the  goose,  "I  could  be  of  some  use, 

For  my  heart  is  with  love  over-brimming! 
The  next  morning  that's  fine  they  shall  go  with  my  nine 

Little  yellow-backed  goslings  out  swimming." 

"1  will  do  what  I  can,"  the  old  Dorking  put  in, 

"And  for  help  they  may  call  on  me  too, 
Though  I've  ten  of  my  own  that  are  only  half  grown, 

And  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  see  to. 

"But  those  poor  little  things  they  are  all  heads  and  wings, 
And  their  bones  through  their  feathers  are  stickin'!" 

"Very  hard  it  may  be,  but  oh,  don't  come  to  me!" 
Said  the  hen  with  one  chicken. 

"Half  my  care,  I  suppose,  there  is  nobody  knows — 

I'm  the  most  overburdened  of  mothers ! 
They  must  learn,  like  the  elves,  how  to  scratch  for  themselves 

And  not  seek  to  depend  upon  others." 

She  went  by  with  a  cluck,  and  the  goose  to  the  duck 

Exclaimed,  in  surprise,  "Well,  I  never!" 
Said  the  duck,  "I  declare,  those  who  have  the  least  care, 

You  will  find,  are  complaining  forever! 

"And  when  all  things  appear  to  look  threatening  and  drear, 
And  when  troubles  your  pathway  are  thick  in, 

For  aid  in  your  woe,  oh,  beware  how  you  go 
To  a  hen  with  one  chicken! " 

Marian  Douglas. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  DOG. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  DOG. 

No  dandy  dog  poor  Rover  was, 

So  sleek  and  fair  to  see  ; 
No  ears  of  beauty  graced  his  head, 

No  dainty  limbs  had  he  ; 
No  pretty  tail  he  had  to  wag 

When  master  came  in  sight ; 
No  glossy  silken  curls  adorned 

His  coat  of  black  and  white. 

But  Rover  was  a  gentle  dog, 

A  faithful  dog,  and  true ; 
The  little  children  loved  him  well, 

He  loved  the  children,  too  ; 
He  licked  their  little  hands  so  soft, 

He  trotted  at  their  heels, 
He  played  with  them  upon  the  grass, 

And  helped  them  at  their  meals. 

When  Rover  was  a  tiny  pup, 

And  scarce  could  run  about, 
His  master  found  him  in  a  ditch 

One  day,  and  brought  him  out ; 
And  little  thought  the  good  lad  then, 

As,  pleased,  he  turned  away, 
In  saving  Rover's  humble  life 

He  saved  his  own  that  day. 

And  tenderly  he  bore  him  home, 
And  nursed  him  well  and  long, 

And  day  by  day,  and  week  by  week, 
The  dog  grew  big  and  strong ; 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  DOG. 


And  late  or  soon,  in  house  or  field, 

The  two  were  ne'er  apart ; 
The  neighbors  said  the  lad  had  tied 

The  dog  up  to  his  heart. 

And  Rover — well,  he  loved  to  lie 

With  Colin  'neath  the  trees, 
And  lay  his  great  and  shaggy  head 

Upon  his  master's  knees ; 
And  had  he  had  the  power  to  speak, 

The  power  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  think  he  would  have  wept  and  said, 

"  1  love  you,  master  dear." 

And  cunning  tricks  he  knew  as  well : 

He  feigned  a  broken  leg ; 
He  tumbled  down  as  he  were  shot, 

And  then  stood  up  to  beg ; 
He  chased  the  butterflies  about, 

He  barked  at  bird  and  bee, 
And  sniffed  the  flowers  as  if  he  loved 

The  pretty  things  to  see. 

No  shepherd's  dog  the  country  round 

Could  better  watch  the  sheep  ; 
His  bright  black  eyes  were  everywhere— 

He  never  seemed  to  sleep  ; 
And  when  the  flock  went  once  astray, 

He  soon  was  on  its  track, 
And  ere  the  sun  had  gone  to  rest 

He  brought  the  wanderers  back. 

He  watched  them  thro'  the  silent  night, 

For  he  was  brave  and  bold  ; 
And  once  he  killed  a  hungry  wolf 

He  caught  beside  the  fold. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  DOG. 


But  better  still  I  love  to  hear 

The  story  that  they  tell 
Of  what,  upon  a  stormy  night, 

His  master  dear  befell. 

The  snow  was  falling  fast  and  thick — 

So  thick  you  scarce  could  see — 
And  Colin's  mother  lay  abed, 

As  ill  as  she  could  be  ; 
So  Colin  must  to  town  away, 

And  fetch  the  doctor  straight ; 
No  matter  though  the  wind  may  blow, 

The  night  be  dark  and  late. 

He  kissed  his  mother's  cheek  so  pale, 

Then  turned  in  haste  to  go ; 
His  faithful  dog  was  at  his  side, 

And  leapt  out  on  the  snow. 
Fierce  blew  the  wind  across  the  heath 

As  Colin  shut  the  door, 
But  bravely  turned  he  to  the  blast, 

And  Rover  went  before. 

No  moon  shed  down  her  gentle  light 

To  guide  them  on  their  way  ; 
They  could  not  tell  the  road  that  night 

They  knew  so  well  by  day. 
And  weary  miles  they  struggled  through, 

And  sore  was  Colin's  heart, 
To  think  his  mother  lay  abed, 

And  he  so  far  apart. 

"Good  dog  !  good  dog!"  at  length  he  said, 

"God  keep  us  both  from  ill ! 
Though  wild  the  night,  we'll  take  the  path 

That  lies  across  the  hill." 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  DOG. 


They  clambered  up  the  steep  hillside, 

They  left  the  vale  below, 
But  louder  howled  the  storm  above, 

And  faster  fell  the  snow. 

The  blood  froze  in  poor  Colin's  veins, 

The  tear  froze  in  his  eye ; 
He  scarce  could  breathe,  so  cold  he  was — 

He  felt  as  he  would  die. 
His  heart  beat  faint  and  fainter  still, 

His  head  swam  round  and  round ; 
He  reeled,  and  with  a  cry  of  pain 

Sank  helpless  to  the  ground. 

And  Rover  licked  his  icy  face, 

And  licked  his  frozen  hand  ; 
Why  master  lay  so  cold  and  still 

He  could  not  understand. 
But  soon  a  thought,  a  happy  thought, 

Lit  up  his  lowly  mind  ; 
He  shook  the  snow  off  from  his  back, 

And  sped  off  like  the  wind. 

A  shepherd  dwelt  upon  the  hill— 

A  goodly  man,  tho'  poor — 
And  he  that  night  was  roused  from  sleep 

By  something  at  his  door. 
He  looked  from  out  his  window  high, 

And  something  black  he  saw, 
That  stood  beside  his  cottage  door, 

And  scraped  it  with  its  paw. 

With  speedy  step  the  old  man  came, 

The  door  he  opened  wide, 
And,  panting  in  the  howling  storm, 

Poor  Rover  he  espied. 


196 


LITTLE  ROCKETS  CHRISTMAS. 


"Come  in,  good  dog,  come  in,"  he  said, 
"And  tell  me  why  you  grieve." 
Poor  Rover  looked  up  in  his  face, 
And  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve. 

The  shepherd  took  his  staff  in  hand, 

And  Rover  led  the  way, 
And  up  the  giddy  heights  they  went 

To  where  young  Colin  lay. 
They  found  him  lying  stiff  and  cold  ; 

The  good  man  raised  his  head. 
He  breathed,  he  murmured  Rover's  name ; 

Thank  God,  he  was  not  dead. 

The  shepherd  bore  him  to  his  cot, 

And  well  he  nursed  him  there  ; 
And  Colin  soon  had  cause  to  bless 

The  good  man  for  his  care. 
And  Rover  now  is  old  and  gray, 

But  Colin  loves  him  still, 
And  ne'er  forgets  the  night  he  saved 

His  life  upon  the  hill. 

Matthias  Barr.. 

LITTLE  ROCKET'S  CHRISTMAS. 

I'll  tell  you  how  the  Christmas  came 
To  Rocket— no,  you  never  met  him, 

That  is,  you  never  knew  his  name, 
Although  'tis  possible  you've  let  him 

Display  his  skill  upon  your  shoes; 

A  bootblack— Arab,  if  you  choose. 

Has  inspiration  dropped  to  zero 

When  such  material  makes  a  hero? 


LITTLE  ROCKETS  CHRISTMAS. 

And  who  was  Rocket?   Well,  an  urchin, 

A  gamin,  dirty,  torn,  and  tattered, 
Whose  chiefest  pleasure  was  to  perch  in 

The  Bowery  gallery;  there  it  mattered 
But  little  what  the  play  might  be — 
Broad  farce  or  point-lace  comedy— 
He  meted  out  his  just  applause 
By  rigid,  fixed,  and  proper  laws. 

A  father  once  he  had,  no  doubt, 

A  mother  on  the  Island  staying, 
Which  left  him  free  to  knock  about 

And  gratify  a  taste  for  straying 
Through  crowded  streets.   Twas  the/e  he  found 
Companionship,  and  grew  renowned. 
An  ash-box  served  him  for  a  bed — 

As  good,  at  least,  as  Moses'  rushes — 
And  for  his  daily  meat  and  bread, 

He  earned  them  with  his  box  and  brushes. 

An  Arab  of  the  city's  slums, 

With  ready  tongue  and  empty  pocket, 
Unaided  left  to  solve  life's  sums, 

But  plucky  always — that  was  Rocket! 
Twas  Christmas  eve,  and  all  the  day 

The  snow  had  fallen  fine  and  fast; 
In  banks  and  drifted  heaps  it  lay 

Along  the  streets.   A  piercing  blast 
Bfew  cuttingly.   The  storm  was  past, 
And  now  the  stars  looked  coldly  down 
Upon  the  snow-enshrouded  town. 
Ah,  well  it  is  if  Christmas  brings 
Good  will  and  peace  which  poet  sings  I 


LITTLE  ROCKETS  CHRISTMAS. 


How  full  are  all  the  streets  to-night 
With  happy  faces,  flushed  and  bright! 
The  matron  in  her  silks  and  furs, 

The  pompous  banker  fat  and  sleek, 
The  idle,  well-fed  loiterers, 

The  merchant  trim,  the  churchman  meek, 
Forgetful  now  of  hate  and  spite, 
For  all  the  world  is  glad  to-night! 
All,  did  I  say?  ,  Ah,  no,  not  all, 
For  sorrow  throws  on  some  its  pall; 
And  here,  within  the  broad,  fair  city, 

The  Christmas  time  no  beauty  brings 
To  those  who  plead  in  vain  for  pity, 

To  those  who  cherish  but  the  stings 
Of  wretchedness  and  want  and  woe, 
Who  never  love's  great  bounty  know, 
Whose  grief  no  kindly  hands  assuage, 
Whose  misery  mocks  our  Christian  age. 
Pray  ask  yourself  what  means  to  them 
That  Christ  is  born  in  Bethlehem! 

But  Rocket?   On  this  Christmas  eve 

You  might  have  seen  him  standing  where 
The  city's  streets  so  interweave 

They  form  that  somewhat  famous  square 
Called  Printing  House.   His  face  was  bright, 

And  at  this  gala  festive  season 
You  could  not  find  a  heart  more  light — 

I'll  tell  you  in  a  word,  the  reason: 
By  dint  of  patient  toil  in  shining 

Patrician  shoes  and  Wall  street  boots, 
He  had  within  his  jacket's  lining, 

A  dollar  and  a  half — the  fruits 


LITTLE  ROCKETS  CHRISTMAS. 


Of  pinching,  saving,  and  a  trial 
Of  really  Spartan  self-denial. 

That  dollar  and  a  half  was  more 
Than  Rocket  ever  owned  before. 
A  princely  fortune,  so  he  thought, 

And  with  those  hoarded  dimes  and  nickels 
What  Christmas  pleasures  may  be  boughtl 

A  dollar  and  a  half!   It  tickles 
The  boy  to  say  it  over,  musing 
Upon  the  money's  proper  using; 
'Til  go  a  gobbler,  leg  and  breast, 

With  cranberry  sauce  and  fixin's  nice, 
And  pie,  mince  pie,  the  very  best, 

And  puddin' — say  a  double  slice! 
And  then  to  doughnuts  how  I'll  freeze; 
With  coffee — guess  that  ere's  the  cheese! 
And  after  grub  Til  go  to  see 
The  'Seven  Goblins  of  Dundee/ 
If  this  yere  Christmas  ain't  a  buster, 
I'll  let  yer  rip  my  Sunday  duster!" 

So  Rocket  mused  as  he  hurried  along, 

Clutching  his  money  with  grasp  yet  tighter, 
And  humming  the  air  of  a  rollicking  song, 

With  a  heart  as  light  as  his  clothes — or  lighter 
Through  Centre  street  he  makes  his  way, 

When,  just  as  he  turns  the  corner  at  Pearl, 
He  hears  a  voice  cry  out  in  dismay, 

And  sees  before  him  a  slender  girl, 
As  ragged  and  tattered  in  dress  as  he, 
With  hand  stretched  forth  for  charity. 


200 


LITTLE  ROCKETS  CHRISTMAS. 


In  the  street-light's  fitful  and  flickering  glare 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  pale,  pinched  face-- 
So  gaunt  and  wasted,  yet  strangely  fair, 

With  a  lingering  touch  of  childhood's  grace 
On  her  delicate  features.    Her  head  was  bare, 

And  over  her  shoulders  disordered  there  hung 
A  mass  of  tangled,  nut-brown  hair. 

In  misery  old  as  in  years  she  was  young, 
She  gazed  in  his  face.   And,  oh!  for  the  eyes — 
The  big,  blue,  sorrowful,  hungry  eyes, — 

That  were  fixed  in  a  desperate,  frightened  staft 

Hundreds  have  jostled  her  by  to-night — 

The  rich,  the  great,  the  good,  and  the  wise, 
Hurrying  on  to  the  warmth  and  light 
Of  happy  homes — they  have  jostled  her  by, 
And  the  only  one  who  has  heard  her  cry, 
Or,  hearing,  has  felt  his  heart-strings  stirred, 
Is  Rocket — this  youngster  of  coarser  clay, 
This  gamin,  who  never  so  much  as  heard 
The  beautiful  story  of  Him  who  lay 
In  the  manger  of  old  on  Christmas  day! 

With  artless  pathos  and  simple  speech, 

She  stands  and  tells  him  her  pitiful  tale; 
Ah,  well  if  those  who  pray  and  preach 

Could  catch  an  echo  of  that  sad  wail! 
She  tells  of  the  terrible  battle  for  bread, 

Tells  of  a  father  brutal  with  crime, 
Tells  of  a  mother  lying  dead, 

At  this,  the  gala  Christmas  time; 
Then  adds,  gazing  up  at  the  star-lit  sky, 
"I'm  hungry  and  cold,  and  I  wish  1  could  die.1' 


the  library 
of  the 

UttiVEKblTV  OF  ILL! 


LITTLE  ROCKETS  CHRISTMAS. 


What  is  it  trickles  down  the  cheek 

Of  Rocket — can  it  be  a  tear? 
He  stands  and  stares,  but  does  not  speak; 

He  thinks  again  of  that  good  cheer 
Which  Christmas  was  to  bring;  he  sees 

Visions  of  turkey,  steaming  pies, 
The  play-bills — then,  in  place  of  these, 

The  girl's  beseeching,  hungry  eyes; 

One  mighty  effort,  gulping  down 
The  disappointment  in  his  breast, 

A  quivering  of  the  lip,  a  frown, 
And  then,  while  pity  pleads  her  best, 

He  snatches  forth  his  cherished  hoard, 

And  gives  it  to  her  like  a  lord! 

"Here,  freeze  to  that;  I'm  flush,  yer  see, 
And  then  you  needs  it  more  'an  me!" 
With  that  he  turns  and  walks  away, 
So  fast  the  girl  can  nothing  say; 
So  fast  he  does  not  hear  the  prayer 
That  sanctifies  the  winter  air. 
But  He  who  blessed  the  widow's  mite 
Looked  down  and  smiled  upon  the  sight, 

No  feast  of  steaming  pies  or  turkey, 

No  ticket  for  the  matinee, 
All  drear  and  desolate  and  murky, 

In  truth,  a  very  dismal  day. 
With  dinner  on  a  crust  of  bread, 

And  not  a  penny  in  his  pocket, 
A  friendly  ash-box  for  a  bed — 

Thus  came  the  Christmas  day  to  Rocket, 


204 


CHRISTMAS  WITH  MY  OLD  MOTHER. 


And  yet — and  here's  the  strangest  thing — 

As  best  befits  the  festive  season, 
The  boy  was  happy  as  a  king — 

I  wonder  can  you  guess  the  reason? 

Vandyke  Brown. 


CHRISTMAS  WITH  MY  OLD  MOTHER. 

Scenes  Upon  Which  Grown  Folks  Look  Back  with  the  Fondest  Recollection. 

Oh,  1  never  felt  so  happy  as  upon  last  Christmas  night, 
Coming  near  the  little  home  where  mother  lives, 

The  familiar  scenes  of  boyhood,  and  the  window  with  the  light, 
And  the  joy  anticipation  ever  gives. 

Eager  fingers  tingled  gladly  as  I  opened  the  old  gate, 
And  my  feet,  impatient,  hurried  to  the  door ; 

But  her  ear  had  caught  my  footsteps,  and  her  love  remembered 
well ; 

On  the  threshold  mother  met  me  as  of  yore. 

Oh,  I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom,  as  she  used  to  clasp  her  boy, 

While  her  tears  and  loving  kisses  answered  mine. 
Then  she  led  me  to  the  table,  where  the  good  things  kept  for  me 

Were  all  waiting  with  the  chair  of  auld  lang  syne. 
She  remembered  ev'rything  I  liked,  and  how  to  make  it  best, 

Serving  me  as  though  my  place  were  still  a  child's ; 
Cakes  and  jellies,  home-made  candy,  and  ev'ry  choicest  thing, 

Heaped  before  me  with  caresses  and  her  smiles. 

Oh,  I  seemed  a  very  boy  again,  as  we  sat  talking  there, 
And  she  told  me  how  she  had  thought  of,  prayed  for  me, 

How  I'd  been  a  joy  and  comfort  to  her  all  her  widowed  life; 
And  her  spirit,  like  an  angel's,  I  could  see, 


A  PASSING  CLOUD. 


205 


How  in  ev'ry  whistling  boy  that  passed  she  heard  me  coming  home, 

So  she  had  love-waited  for  me  all  the  years  ; 
Then,  arising  from  the  table,  she  would  stand  caressing  me, 

As  she  breathed  on  me  a  blessing  through  her  tears. 

When  I  went  to  bed  she  came  to  me  and  tucked  the  covers  round, 

In  the  dear  old  way  that  only  mothers  know. 
Oh,  I  felt  so  blissful,  peaceful,  and  so  full  of  tender  love 

That  all  silent  came  my  glad  heart's  overflow. 
Happy,  grateful,  joyful  tears  I  shed ;  aye,  cried  myself  to  sleep, 

Dreaming  in  a  heav'nly  dreamland  free  from  cares  ; 
In  my  boyhood  home  and  bed  again,  the  covers  tucked  around,, 

Safely  guarded  by  my  dear  old  mother's  prayers. 

Lu  B.  Cake. 


A  PASSING  CLOUD. 

Donald  and  May  had  fallen  out, 
As  little  people  sometimes  do  ; 
And,  bit  by  bit,  it  came 
about, 

A  cloud  between  them 
grew ! 

She,  with  her  doll  and  pic- 
ture-books, 
Marched  primly  to  the 
garden  seat  ; 
Whilst  he,  with  proud  and 
stubborn  looks, 
Ran  otT  with  rapid  feet. 

And  still,  for  all  the  sunlit 
air, 

And  birds  that  caroled 
long  and  loud, 

Donald  was  conscious  everywhere 
Of  one  prevailing  cloud. 


THE  MAGPIES  LESSON. 


And  May  had  put  her  books  aside, 
The  words  before  her  seemed  to  swim ; 

She  felt  so  lost  she  could  have  cried — 
The  day  was  changed  and  dim — 

When,  coming  suddenly  behind, 
The  boys  warm  lips  were  at  her  ear, 

And  softly  whispered,  "  Never  mind  ! 
I  did  not  mean  it,  dear." 

And  Donald  smiled  to  see  her  start, 

And  smiling,  too,  was  happy  May ; 
For,  in  the  sunshine  of  her  heart, 

The  cloud  had  passed  away  ! 

J.  R.  Eastwood. 


THE  MAGPIE'S  LESSON. 

In  early  times,  the  story  says, 
When  birds  could  talk  and  lecture, 

A  Magpie  called  her  feathered  friends 
To  teach  them  architecture: 

"To  build  a  nest,  my  courteous  friends," — 

They  all  began  to  chatter: 
"  No  need  to  teach  us  that,  good  'Mag/ 

'Tis  such  an  easy  matter!" 

"  To  build  a  nest,"— Professor  "Mag" 
Resumed  her  speech  demurely, — 

"  First  choose  a  well-forked  bough,  wherein 
The  nest  may  sit  securely." 

"Of  course,"  said  Jenny  Wren.    "Now  cross 
Two  sticks  for  the  foundation." 


THE  MAGPIES  LESSON.  207 

"Oh,  all  know  that,"  quoth  Mr.  "Rook," 
"Without  this  long  oration." 

"  Now  bend  some  slender  twigs  to  form 

The  round  sides  of  the  dwelling." 
"A  fool  knows  that,"  exclaimed  the  thrush, 

"  Without  a  magpie's  telling." 

"  Next  take  some  wool  and  line  the  nest, 

And  bind  it  well  together." 
"  Why,  that's  as  clear,"  exclaimed  the  owl, 

"As  stars  in  frosty  weather!" 

While  thus  they  talked,  Professor  "Mag" 

Her  nest  had  half  completed! 
And,  growing  quite  indignant  now, 
To  see  how  she  was  treated, 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  she  said, 

"  I  see  you're  all  so  clever, 
My  lessons  are  superfluous, — 

I  leave  you  then  forever." 

Away  she  flew,  and  left  the  birds 

Their  folly  to  discover, 
Who  now  can  build  but  half  a  nest, 

And  cannot  roof  it  over. 

The  magpie  sits  beneath  her  roof, 

No  rain  nor  hail  can  pelt  her; 
The  others,  brooding  o'er  their  young, 

Themselves  enjoy  no  shelter. 

No  better  fate  do  men  deserve, 

When  self-conceit  can  lead  them 
Friendly  instructions  to  despise, 

And  think  they  do  not  need  them. 


20^ 


TIRED  MOTHERS. 


TIRED  MOTHERS. 

A  little  elbow  leans  upon  your  knee, 
Your  tired  knee  that  has  so  much  to  bear ; 

A  child's  dear  eyes  are  looking  lovingly 
From  underneath  a  thatch  of  tangled  hair, 


Perhaps  you  do  not  heed  the  velvet  touch 
Of  warm,  moist- fingers,  folding  yours  so  tight ; 

You  do  not  prize  this  blessing  over-much  — 
You  almost  are  too  tired  to  pray  to-night. 


TIRED  MOTHERS. 


209 


But  it  is  blessedness  !    A  year  ago 

I  did  not  see  it  as  I  do  to-day — 
We  are  so  dull  and  thankless ;  and  too  slow 

To  catch  the  sunshine  till  it  slips  away. 
And  now  it  seems  surpassing  strange  to  me, 

That,  while  I  wore  the  badge  of  motherhood, 
I  did  not  kiss  more  oft  and  tenderly 

The  little  child  that  brought  me  only  good. 

And  if  some  night  when  you  sit  down  to  rest, 

You  miss  this  elbow  from  your  tired  knee, — 
This  restless  curling  head  from  off  your  breast, — 

This  lisping  tongue  that  chatters  constantly  ; 
If  fron  your  own  the  dimpled  hands  have  slipped, 

And  ne'er  will  nestle  to  your  palm  again  ; 
If  the  white  feet  into  their  grave  have  tripped, 

I  cannot  blame  you  for  your  heart-ache  then. 

I  wonder  so  that  mothers  ever  fret 

At  little  children  clinging  to  their  gown ; 
Or  that  the  footprints,  when  the  days  are  wet, 

Are  ever  black  enough  to  make  them  frown. 
If  I  could  find  a  little  muddy  boot, 

Or  cap,  or  jacket,  on  my  chamber  floor, — 
If  I  could  kiss  a  rosy,  restless  foot, 

And  hear  it  patter  in  my  house  once  more, — 

If  I  could  mend  a  broken  cart  to-day, 

To-morrow  make  a  kite  to  reach  the  sky, 
There  is  no  woman  in  God's  world  could  say 

She  was  more  blissfully  content  than  I. 
But  ah  1  the  dainty  pillow  next  my  own 

Is  never  rumpled  by  a  shining  head, 
My  singing  birdling  from  its  nest  has  flown, 

The  little  girl  I  used  to  kiss  is  dead.       may  riley  smith. 


DISCRETION  IS  THE  BETTER  PART  OF  VALOR. 

DISCRETION  IS  THE  BETTER  PART  OF  VALOR. 

Nell  sat  on  a  lounge  one  summer  day, 

So  busy  with  a  book, 
And  very  clever  and  very  wise 

She  archly  tried  to  look, 
As  she  said,  "Shall  I  read  you  a  story 

Of  a  sparrow  and  a  rook? 

"It  chanced  that  once  upon  a  time, 

All  on  a  glad  spring  day, 
A  pert  young  sparrow  and  a  rook 

Together  chanced  to  stray; 
And  the  smaller  bird  began  to  talk 

In  quite  a  lordly  way. 


"  'You're  bigger  far  than  I,  Sir  Rook, 

But  yet  I  think  I'm  right 
In  saying  you're  not  half  so  brave 

When  men  come  into  sight; 
But  with  a  caw  of  dire  alarm 

You  swiftly  take  your  flight. 


THE  ELEPHANT  AND  THE  CHILD. 


211 


"  'Just  watch  those  bread  crumbs  scattered  there, 

A  group  of  boys  close  by; 
Fearless  I'll  flit  down  for  a  crumb, 

And  off  with  it  I'll  fly; 
While  you,  I'm  sure,  would  never  dare 

A  thing  like  this  to  try.' 

"No  sooner  said  than  done;  the  bird 
Flew  down  as  quick  as  thought. 

Alas  for  him!  he  found  too  late 
Far  more  than  he  had  sought. 

A  cruel  net  had  covered  him, 

.   And  he  was  safely  caught. 

"And  then,  as  Mr.  Rook  flew  off, 
Back  to  his  lofty  nest, 
1  He  said,  4 1  see,  pure  recklessness 

Of  courage  is  no  test. 
Of  all  the  parts  which  valor  make, 
Discretion  is  the  best! 

G.  Weatherly. 


THE  ELEPHANT  AND  THE  CHILD. 

The  arching  trees  above  a  path 
Had  formed  a  pleasant  shade, 

And  here  to  screen  him  while  he  slept, 
An  infant  boy  was  laid. 

His  mother  near  him  gathered  fruit, 
But  soon  with  fear  she  cried, 

For,  slowly  moving  down  the  path, 
An  elephant  she  spied. 


212 


NEARER  TO  THEE. 


The  sticks  he  crushed  beneath  his  feet 
Had  waked  the  sleeping  child, 

Who  pushed  aside  the  waving  curls, 
And  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

The  mother  could  not  reach  the  spot — 
With  fear  she  held  her  breath — 

And  there  in  agony  she  stood 
To  see  him  crushed  to  death. 

His  heavy  foot  the  monster  held 

Awhile  above  the  boy, 
Who  laughed  to  see  it  moving  there, 

And  clapped  his  hands  with  joy. 

The  mother  saw  it  reach  the  ground, 

Beyond  her  infant  son, 
And  watched  till  every  foot  was  safe 

Across  the  little  one. 

She  caught  her  infant  from  the  ground, 
For  there,  unharmed,  he  lay, 

And  could  have  thanked  the  noble  beast, 
Who  slowly  stalked  away. 


NEARER  TO  THEE. 

"  Nearer  my  God,  to  Thee,"  rose  on  the  air, 
Each  note  an  ecstasy,  joyous  and  rare, 
Tones  that  were  triumph  peals  shrined  in  a  song, 
Breathing  of  victory  gained  over  wrong  ; 
Out  on  the  listening  air,  mocking  at  fear, 
Ringing  its  clarion  cry,  fearless  and  clear, 
Up  from  a  soul  redeemed,  noble  and  free, 
"Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,  nearer  to  Thee.', 


NEARER  TO  THEE, 


"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,"  thrilled  on  the  air, 
Each  note  an  agony,  linked  with  a  prayer, 
Out  on  a  sinking  ship,  land  out  of  sight, 
Borne  by  the  wailing  winds  into  the  night ; 
White-maned  and  angry  waves  howling  in  scorn, 
Wild  shrieks  of  helpless  hearts  over  them  borne  ; 
Still  rang  one  trusting  voice  high  o'er  the  sea, 
"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,  nearer  to  Thee." 

"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,"  thrilled  on  the  breeze. 
Far  in  a  heathen  land,  'neath  the  palm  trees, 
Rising  in  soulful  notes,  earnest  and  calm, 
Trust  and  tranquility  winging  the  psalm  ; 
Fierce  faces  round  about,  fever  and  death 
Mixed  with  the  tropic  flowers'  balm-laden  breath ; 
One  lonely  child  of  God  bending  the  knee, 
Saying  with  uplifted  face,  "Nearer  to  Thee." 

"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,"  echoed  a  street 
Worn  by  the  night  tread  of  murderers'  feet, 
Up  from  a  cellar,  dark,  noisome  with  slime, 
Out  o'er  a  motley  crowd  hideous  with  crime  ; 
Curses  and  oaths  obscene  fouling  the  ear, 
Still  rose  the  trusting  notes,  trembling  but  clear; 
Poverty,  suffering,  singing  their  plea, 
"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,  nearer  to  Thee." 

"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,"  rose  from  a  room 
Where  a  man,  old  and  blind,  sat  in  the  gloom, 
While  his  poor  hands  caressed,  there  on  the  bed, 
One  who  was  once  his  bride,  silent  and  dead. 
Worn  were  the  wrinkled  hands  folded  in  sleep ; 
Closed  were  the  patient  eyes,  slumbering  deep. 
"Called  to  her  home,"  he  said,  "waiting  for  me ; 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,  nearer  to  Thee." 


LITTLE  JO. 


"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,''  triumph  01  $ny<t 

Winging  its  way  every  hom  on  the  air, 

O'er  the  whole  world  from  a  numberless  throng, 

Blending  their  smiles  and  their  sighs  in  its  song  5 

Priceless  the  memories,  sweet  and  profound, 

Linked  like  a  chaplet  of  pearls  by  its  sound. 

Grant  its  petition  till  all  the  world  be 

"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,  nearer  to  Thee." 


LITTLE  JO. 

I  wonder  if  old  Santa  Claus  will  come  to-night! 
He  couldn't  find  the  way  last  year; 
I  wish  he  had,  for  little  Jo  was  here — 
Dear  little  Jo!  we're  better  off  a  sight, 
Than  what  we  were  last  year 
When  he  was  here. 

We  hadn't  fire  to  keep  us  warm  last  Christmas  day; 
And  not  enough,  not  near  enough  to  eat, — 
Just  bread  and  tea;  but  not  a  bit  of  meat 
On  Christmas  day!  I  didn't  care  to  play, 
The  snow  kept  falling  fast, 
And  sleighs  went  past. 

Once  when  I  brought  my  blocks  and  things  to  Jo 
He  moaned  as  if  it  hurt  him  just  to  look, 
Then  partly  cried,  and  pushed  the  picture  book; 
His  sorry  eyes  looked  straight  at  mother,  so, 
And  she  said,  "  Hush,  and  go  away, 
Jo  doesn't  want  to  play." 


LITTLE  JO. 


And  not  a  soul  came  in  the  whole  day  through, 
And  we  were  there  alone  all  day,  you  see, — 
Mother  and  I,  and  little  Jo — we  three; 
And  then  toward  night  the  wind  arose  and  blew, 
And  I  remember  now  so  plain, 
How  all  the  snow  turned  into  rain* 

That  made  it  lonesomer,  you  know, 
And  little  Jo  grew  worse  toward  night, 
And  moaned  so  pitiful,  his  face  was  white, 
Why,  just  as  white  and  cold,  almost,  as  snow. 
You  see  we  hadn't  fire  to  keep  him  warm 
Through  such  a  storm. 

That's  why  I  had  to  go  to  bed  so  early; 
Mother  said  first  I  might  kiss  little  Jo, — 
I  didn't  do  it  every  night,  you  know, 
But  this  was  Christmas  night, — his  hair  was  curly, 
And  scattered  on  the  pillow,  soft  and  bright; 
I  noticed  then  how  solemn  and  how  white 

And  lonesome  mother  looked,  she  didn't  talk, 
Except  to  bid  me  say  my  prayers,  and  say  'em  low, 
So's  not  to  waken  Jo; 
And  then  to  see  how  careful  I  could  walk. 
She  didn't  say  another  single  word;. 
But  kissed  Jo  as  he  stirred. 

Once  in  the  night  I  woke— the  rain  still  poured 
Against  the  window;  mother  sat  beside 
Jo's  bed,  and  when  he  tossed  about  and  cried 
She  soothed  him  with  a  hymn  about  the  Lord, — 

The  dear  Christ-child  who  on  one  Christmas  day, 
Long  years  ago,  within  a  manger  lay. 


2l6 


LITTLE  JO. 


There  was  such  comfort  in  that  pretty  hymn, — 
Or  else  in  mother's  voice, — I  nestled  deep 
Within  the  coverlid  and  went  to  sleep, 
Still  hearing  in  my  dreams— though  faint  and  dim— 
The  sound  of  rain,  and  mother  singing  low, 
Singing  to  little  Jo. 

Next  morning  I  woke  suddenly,  and  sat 
Up  in  the  bed;  the  dreadful  storm  had  past. 
Mother  was  up  and  sewing  just  as  fast ! 
It  made  me  very  glad  to  notice  that; 

She  hadn't  sewed  since  Jo  was  took  that  way, 
That's  why  we  were  so  hungry  Christmas  day. 

I  dressed  me  quick,  and  went  to  Joey's  bed; 
He  hadn't  wakened  yet,  and  lay  so  still; 
His  little  hands  were  crossed;  I  never  will 
Forget  how  smooth  the  curls  were  on  his  head. 
"Mother,"  I  cried,  "has  Jo  got  well  again?" 
"Yes,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "well,  and  out  of  pain,1' 

And  then  I  went  and  stood  by  mother's  chair, 
She  looked  as  different,  most,  as  little  Jo; 
Too  pale  and  sick,  it  seemed  to  me,  to  sew. 
And  there  was  such  a  sadness  in  the  airl 

But  mother  stitched  away  with  all  her  might, 
A  little  narrow  gown  made  all  of  white. 

Jo  has  a  pretty  grave;  it  stands  alone, 
Near  other  poor  folks'  graves  close  by  the  wall. 
The  most  of  them  are  large,  a  few  are  small. 
Jo's  hasn't  yet,  of  course,  got  any  stone; 

But  summer  grasses  grow  there  just  as  sweet, 
And  winter  snows,— they  drape  it  like  a  sheet. 


BIRTHDAY  GIFTS. 


217 


I  often  wondered  how  it  came  that  we 
Should  have  the  right  to  lay  our  dear  boy  there, 
In  that  sweet  spot,  with  none  to  blame  or  care; 
I  didn't  understand  how  it  could  be, 

For  not  a  blade  of  grass  grows  near  our  door; 
We  haven't  any  yard,  we  are  so  poor. 

So  I  asked  mother  when  we  stood  beside 
His  grave  one  day.    "The  dear  Lord,  long  ago, 
Gave  graves  like  this,"  she  said,  "to  such  as  Jo," 
And  then  she  turned  her  face  away  and  cried. 
I  wonder  why?  It  is  a  pretty  grave,  I'm  sure, 
And  little  Jo— he  sleeps  there  all  secure. 

Mary  McGuire. 


BIRTHDAY  GIFTS. 

Papa,  don't  you  know  it  is  my  birthday  ? 
Don't  you  know  I  am  five  years  old  to-day  ? 
My  poor  wooden  horse  has  lost  his  head, 
My  dear  little  kitten  is  all  gone  dead  ; 
My  marbles  are  lost,  and  my  top  won't  hum  ; 
And,  darling  papa,  please  give  me  a  drum  ! 
The  soldier  boys  want  me  to  come  out  and  play  ; 
And  I  want  a  drum,  for  I'm  five  to-day. 

Papa,  do  you  know  it  is  my  birthday  ? 
Do  you  know  I  am  ten  years  old  to-day  ? 
And  I've  got  my  Latin,  and  done  my  sums  ; 
And  I'm  tired  of  marbles  and  tops  and  drums. 
And  at  school  I  never  got  in  a  row, 
And  grandma  declares  I  make  a  nice  bow : 
And  so,  altogether,  to  go  with  my  mates, 
I  should  like,  dear  papa,  a  nice  pair  of  skates, 


2l8 


BIRTHDAY  GIFTS. 


Come  father,  do  not  forget,  I  pray, 
I'm  just  fifteen  this  blessed  day ; 
I'm  a  pretty  tall  fellow  for  that  you  see, 
And  in  less  than  a  year  in  college  I'll  be, — 
Unless  all  my  digging  should  drive  me  to  bed, — 
For  I'm  studying  the  eyes  almost  out  of  my  head, 
When  I'd  rather  be  popping  away  at  a  duck, 
With  very  great  skill  and  very  poor  luck  ! 
So  Til  come  to  the  point,  for  under  the  sun 
There's  nothing  I  want  like  a  handsome  new  gun. 

Twenty  years  old,  and  a  fine  moustache, 
A  part  at  commencement, — a  glorious  dash  ! 
And  father,  you  heard  what  a  clapping  I  got ; 
I  knew  where  you  sat,  and  I  looked  at  that  spot, 
And  thanked  you,  my  father,  for  loving  me  so, 
With  your  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  cheeks  in  a  glow. 
The  gift  for  my  birthday  ?    If  truth  must  be  told, 
My  watch  is  of  silver,  and  might  be  of  gold. 

My  father,  to-day  1  am  just  twenty-five, 
Ready  and  glad  to  struggle  and  strive  ; 
But  the  world,  my  father,  to  me  looks  bright, 
For  the  gentle  promise  I  won  last  night ; 
And  the  birthday  gift  that  would  gladden  me 
Is  your  tender  blessing  on  Clara  and  me. 

Thirty  years  old  this  blessed  day  ! 
The  clouds  may  come,  but  they  never  stay  ; 
For  sunshine  chases  the  clouds  in  turn  : 
That  from  my  smiling  babe  I  learn, 
From  the  cradle  where  once  we  leaned  and  wept, 
While  with  waxen  cheek  our  first-born  slept. 
But  now  in  my  wife's  fair  hand,  I  see 
The  robe  so  stealthily  wrought  for  me. 


BIRTHDAY  GIFTS. 


2l9 


Am  I  thirty-five  ?   Is  it  even  so  ? 
Does  my  saucy  wife  pretend  to  know  ? 
But  the  brief  ten  years  of  my  wedded  joy 
Shine  out  in  the  eyes  of  my  laughing  boy. 
And  Minnie's  small  fingers  have  hemmed  for  me 
The  kerchiefs  my  birthday  gift  to  be. 

Forty  years  old  ;  and  my  father  lies 
Where  o'er  his  grave  the  fir  tree  sighs ! 
His  smile  and  his  blessing  dwelt  with  me, 
The  blessing  I  feel,  the  smile  I  see, 
As  when  in  my  motherless  boyhood  days 
He  warmed  my  heart  with  his  meeds  of  praise. 
Now  my  holy  gift  from  rny  sister  Ann 
Is  the  pictured  face  of  the  dear  old  man. 

Forty-five  !  and  with  blushing  face 
My  Minnie  looks  down  with  a  modest  grace 
While  her  lover  pleads ;  and  I  think  of  the  day 
So  well  I  remember  !  I  cannot  say  nay  : 
She  looks  like  her  mother,  the  pretty  young  thing ; 
I  see  it  must  end  in  a  wedding  ring, 
And  my  birthday  gift  this  year  must  be 
A  son  that  shall  steal  my  daughter  from  me. 

I  am  fifty,  dearl  'tis  the  prime  of  life  ! 
No  wrinkles,  as  yet,  you  can  count,  my  wife  ! 
For  the  busy  world  is  so  full  of  joy 
That  I  sometimes  think  I  am  still  a  boy. 
Ah  !  here  is  my  gift  which  I  just  have  found, — 
From  my  children, — a  volume  superbly  bound  ; 
You  villains !    How  shall  I  stifle  my  rage  ! 
An  elegant  classical  treatise  on  age. 


2  20 


THE  SUCCESSFUL  MAN. 


Sixty  years  old  !  and  thy  silver  hair, 

My  Clara,  to  me  looks  wondrous  fair ; 

But  hark  !  what  a  trampling  of  feet  below  : 

My  clerks — a  smiling  and  goodly  row — 

A  cane  with  a  head  of  gold  they  bear ; 

They  speak  of  my  kind  and  watchful  care, 

They  call  me  father !  words  are  so  weak, 

Do  you  wonder,  my  wife,  that  I  could  not  speak  ? 

Threescore  and  ten  sounds  rather  old  ; 
Withered  but  fair  is  the  hand  I  hold. 
Clara,  my  loving,  long-tried  wife, 
Lo  !  in  thine  eyes  I  read  my  life — 
Peaceful,  whate'er  the  world  might  bring, 
Ready  the  father's  praise  to  sing. 
See  !  the  grandchildren's  thoughtful  care  ; 
I  sit  in  my  stately  birthday  chair. 

Eighty  !  the  world  is  changed  below  : 
Progress  it  is,  I  think  I  know  i 
They  are  building  a  home  for  aged  men  ; 
I  must  send  a  check— just  hand  me  my  pen — 
It  shakes—no  matter — a  few  days  more  ; 
The  pleasant  journey  is  almost  o'er, 
Give  me  your  grandmother's  silver  curl,  v 
My  birthday  gift,  the  last,  dear  girl. 
My  blessing — good-night !  the  old  man's  home  f 
Yes,  it  is  time,  I  am  glad  to  come. 

THE  SUCCESSFUL  MAN. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  says  that  if  she  were  asked  to  define  the  mean- 
ing of  a  successful  man,  she  would  say:  "A  man  who  has  made  a 
happy  home  for  his  wife  and  children.    No  matter  what  he  has  not 


PARTING. 


221 


done  in  the  way  of  achieving  wealth  and  honor,  if  he  has  done  that,  he 
is  a  grand  success.  If  he  has  not  done  that,  and  it  is  his  own  fault, 
though  he  be  the  highest  in  the  land,  he  is  a  most  pitiable  failure.  I 
wonder  how  many  men  in  the  mad  pursuit  of  gold,  which  characterizes 
the  age,  realize  that  there  is  no  fortune  which  can  be  left  to  their 
families  as  great  as  the  memory  of  a  happy  home." 


Thou  must  be  true  thyself, 
If  thou  the  truth  would  teach; 

Thy  soul  must  overflow,  if  thou 
Another  soul  would  reach. 

It  needs  the  overflow  of  heart 
To  give  the  lips  full  speech. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


PARTING. 

If  thou  dost  bid  thy  friend  farewell, 
But  for  one  night  though  that  farewell  may  be, 
Press  thou  his  hand  in  thine. 
How  canst  thou  tell  how  far  from  thee 
Fate  or  caprice  may  lead  his  steps  ere  that  to-morrow  comes? 
Men  have  been  known  lightly  to  turn  the  corner  of  a  street 
And  days  have  grown  to  months, 
And  months  to  lagging  years,  ere  they 
Have  looked  in  loving  eyes  again. 


222 


RESOLVES. 


Parting  at  best  is  underlaid 
With  tears  and  pain; 

Therefore,  lest  sudden  death  should  come  between, 
Or  time,  or  distance,  clasp  with  pressure  firm  the  hand 
Of  him  who  goeth  forth; 
Unseen,  Fate  goeth  too. 

Yea,  find  thou  always  time  to  say  some  earnest  word 
Between  the  idle  talk,  lest  with  thee  henceforth, 
Night  and  day,  regret  should  walk. 

Coventry  Patmore. 


RESOLVES. 

We'll  read  that  book,  we'll  sing  that  song, 
But  when?   Oh,  when  the  days  are  long; 
When  thoughts  are  free,  and  voices  clear; 
Some  happy  time  within  the  year: 
The  days  troop  by  with  noiseless  tread, 
The  song  unsung,  the  book  unread. 
We'll  see  that  friend,  and  make  him  feel 
The  weight  of  friendship,  true  as  steel; 
Some  flowers  of  sympathy  bestow: 
But  time  sweeps  on  with  steady  flow, 
Until  with  quick,  reproachful  tear, 
We  lay  our  flowers  upon  his  bier. 
And  still  we  walk  the  desert  sands, 
And  still  with  trifles  fill  our  hands, 
While  ever,  just  beyond  our  reach, 
A  fairer  purpose  shows  to  each. 
The  deeds  we  have  not  done,  but  willed, 
Remain  to  haunt  us — unfulfilled. 


THE  RAIN. 


IB!  L»WiM 


m  m 


CIDER-DRINKING  BOYfe. 


There  is  one  in  this  picture,  You  can  not  see  hia, 
ch  ?  Well  that  is  what  happened  when  he  was  dnnk^ 
mg  the  cider.  People  did  not  see  him,  or,  if  they  did, 
\bt\  took  no  notice  c'  him  >  and  it  is  so  commo*  a 


2 


CILER-DRINKING  BOYS. 


thing  for  boys  to  drink  cider,  he  went  on  drinking  aB 
he  wished. 

Perhaps  you  think  these  are  all  made-up  stories,  3<ut 
J  have  known  many  cider-drinking  boys  who  have 
turned  out  badly.  The  hardest  drinker  I  ever  knew 
commenced  on  cider  when  he  was  a  beautiful  blue-eyed 
boy  only  five  years  ola.  He  would  go  to  the  barrel  of 
cider  that  was  to  be  kept  for  vinegar  and  bore  a  hole 
in  it  with  a  gimlet  and  suck  the  cider  through  a  straw 
He  would  leave  his  play  to  go  and  suck  cider,  and  thea 
after  awhile  he  would  go  and  drink  again.  He  kepi 
this  up  day  after  day  and  week  after  week  until  he 
often  drank  himself  drunk.  Then  he  was  called  a 
drunkard,  but  he  was  a  drunkard  long  before  that,  and 
he  kept  on  till  he  died  a  drunkard. 

There  are  a  great  many  cider-drinking  boys  in  the 
country,  and  they  think  cider  is  a  harmless  drink.  Wc 
have  often  heard  it  said  so  in  our  village ;  so  one  day 
we  thought  we  would  ask  the  doctor  about  it.  Dr. 
Travis  knows.  He  is  a  good  temperance  doctor.  He 
never  gives  any  alcohol  in  his  medicines.  And  he 
says  that  common  hard  cider  will  not  only  make  peo- 
ple drunk,  but  that  it  does  sometimes  give  those  who 
drink  it  the  delirium  tremens  if  they  drink  enough  and 
keep  at  it  long  enough.  He  says  that  he  has  been 
called  to  several  cases  of  that  kind.  Only  last  spring 
there  was  a  man  over  in  Masonville  whose  little  boy 
only  six  years  old  was  sick,  and  he  sent  for  him  to 
attend  him.  The  little  fellow  was  raving-distracted; 
seeing  all  kinds  of  snakes  and  terrible  creatures,  just 


c:der-drinking  boys. 


3 


is  drunkards  do  sometimes  when  they  drink  a  great  - 
deal.  So  the  doctor  asked  questions  until  he  found 
out  that  the  day  previous  there  had  been  a  '  raising  " 
close  by,  where  they  had  a  barrel  of  cider,  and,  aftef 
the  men  had  gone  home,  the  boy  had  found  a  straw 
and  gone  to  the  barrel  and  drank  till  he  fell  senseless. 
He  found  out,  too,  that  he  had  drank  much  cider  dur- 
ing the  day,  and,  besides,  that  he  had  had  plenty  ol 
cider  all  winter. 

And  now,  boys  and  girls,  if  this  is  one  of  the  drinks 
that  make  drunkards,  you  and  I  want  nothing  to  do 
with  it  from  first  to  last. 


OUB  A. B.C. 

Ale  and  Beer  and  Cider 

Are  the  drunkard's  ABC, 
But  that  is  a  kind  of  training 

Never'll  do  for  you  and  me. 
Abstinence,  Boldness,  Candor, 

Are  far  better  words  you  see, 
And  we'll  write  them  on  ov  r  banner, 

For  teetotalers  are  we. 


HARD  GIBES, 

1  once  heard  an  old  white-haired  man,  who  bad  bees 
redeemed  from  the  drink,  say:  " My  friends,  beware  ol 
aider.  I  tell  you  there  is  as  big  a  devil  in  the  cider* 
barrel  as  in  the  whisky-barrel."  It  will  ruin  a  man  ai 
quick  as  any  other  member  of  the  alcohol  family  .only 
$ve  it  a  chance. 


A  WARNING  EXAMPLE. 


BY  ELLA  WHEELER. 

As  I  sit  here  writing  to  you,  a  little  way  off— no* 
many  miles — lies  an  old  man  dying  of  a  lingering  dis 
ease — and  he  suffers  terribly.  He  has  been  a  large, 
robust  man.  H;  must  have  been  a  perfect  Hercules 
in  his  youth,  and  no  doubt  was  destined  for  a  ripe  old 
age.  But  he  began  to  drink  moderately  when  a  boy  ; 
he  began,  I  have  no  doubt,  with  sweet  cider,  for  he 
was  brought  up  in  an  apple-growing  and  cider-making 
country.  When  older,  he  took  stronger  drinks.  Evei 
since  I  was  a  little  girl,  I  have  known  of  him  as  a  con- 
stant drinker.  Yet  he  seemed  hale  and  hearty,  and 
would  often  boast  to  people,  "  I  am  an  example  of  a 
constant  drinker  !  look  at  me  !  I  am  well,  strong, 
and  well-to-do  !  I  have  a  fine  house,  lands  and  stock  ; 
yet  I  drink  all  I  please."  But  what  has  been  the 
result  of  that  constant  drinking?  Why,  both  his  sons 
came  up  to  follow  his  example,  until  one  died,  and 
now  the  other  is  a  common  sot — a  half-simple  d/unk. 
ard.  The  old  man  now  lies  in  horrible  agony,  with 
the  lining  of  his  stomach  actually  eaten  up  with  alco- 
holic liquors.  You  can  imagine  what  his  suffering 
must  be  !  Does  it  pay  to  form  the  habit  of  drinking 
liquor  ?  Even  if  you  escape  its  many  evils  through  a 
long  life,  they  will  overtake  you  at  the  end  and  make 
you  pay  heavy  interest.  This  i3  but  one  of  many 
Sreadful  cases  I  have  known. 


•  ?«Mhh«l  by  Ths  National  Tempbraxcb  ?oo«ty  ako  Pvblicaim* 
HorsK,  No.  58  Reade  Staset,  New  \m\  at  %r  y*r  Thoumad. 


2 


HE  BEGAK  ON  CIDER. 


dearly.  Perhaps  they  let  him  do  too  much  as  hi 
pleased.  At  all  events  he  had  all  the  cidtr  he  wanted, 
and  his  father  kept  him  company  in  drinking  it.  It  was 
always  on  the  table,  and  the  farm-hands  had  it  in  the 
field,  and  the  driving,  hard-working  farmer  would  even 
stop  in  the  hay-field  sometimes,  as  the  pitcher  of  cider 
went  around,  to  give  some  fling  at  the  "  temperance  ti- 
rade," as  he  called  it,  which  would  even  stop  his  drinking 
cider.  But  they  could  not  do  it.  He  raised  the  apples 
and  made  it  himself,  as  his  father  had  done  before  him, 
and  drank  it  too,  and  was  "none  the  worse  for  it." 
And  then  he  would  tell  how  many  barrels  he  rolled 
into  his  cellar  every  fall — enough  for  all  his  family  the 
year  round,  and  all  his  visitors  and  his  farm-hands  be- 
sides. Of  course  Louis  got  all  he  wanted.  Neither 
his  wise  father  nor  his  loving  mother  put  any  restraint 
on  him  nor  feared  the  consequences  until  the  appetite 
which  was  fed  on  cider  demanded  some  stronger 
drink.  But  then  it  was  too  late.  He  had  grown  up 
and  thought  himself  too  old  to  be  restrained  by  his 
parents.  He  had  fast  horses,  and  was  often  seen  at 
the  village  bar,  and  at  the  county  seat.  Many  a  time 
have  I  seen  his  mother  come  out  of  the  gate  and  look 
to  see  if  he  was  coming  home,  she  was  so  much  afraid 
something  would  happen  to  him.  And  something  did 
happen,  sure  enough.  Getting  tipsy  is  poor  help  in 
managing  fast  horses,  but  those  who  try  it  seldom  find 
it  out  until  it  is  too  lat  e.  So  one  night  Louis'  hoises 
ran  away.  The  village  people  heard  the  furious  gillop 
through  the  street,  and  came  out  hastily  to  see  svltat 


HARMLESS  CIDER. 


3 


was  the  matter.  They  found  the  broken  buggy,  and  at  a 
little  distance  was  Louis,  terribly  mangled  and  senseless. 
His  heels  had  caught  in  the  buggy  as  he  fell,  and  he  had 
been  dragged  some  distance.  He  was  carried  home 
ind  the  doctor  sent  for,  but  all  in  vain ;  he  was  past 
hope.  After  some  hours  he  came  to  his  senses  only  to 
find  out  that  he  was  dying.  His  father  was  wringing 
his  hands,  and  his  mother  sobbing  in  anguish ;  but  they 
checked  their  grief  to  hear  his  dying  words  :  "  It  is  too 
late,  father,  to  weep  now.  I  have  been  a  bad  boy,  but 
I  could  not  live  without  drink.  I  learned  to  love  it  on 
the  table,  and  in  the  field.  If  I  go  to  hell,  I  started 
from  your  cider-barrel."  He  died  that  night,  and  1  tit  his 
parents  desolate  because  they  taught  him  to  drinW  cider. 


HARMLESS  CIDER. 

BY  MRS.  E.  J.  RICHMOND. 

u  How  can  there  be  any  harm  in  cider  ?  'on't  see 
—only  simple  apple-juice,"  said  Jack  Bentoi  **!  would 
be  a  temperance  boy  if  you  would  leave  thav  >ut  of  the 
oledee." 

now  long,  I  wonder  ?  "  answered  Julia.  "A  tem- 
perance boy  drinking  cider  is  about  like  a  O  listian  boy 
who  swears  a  little.  He  won't  hold  out  km»<.  I  heard 
a  reformed  man  say  once  thwt  there  was  is  big  a  devil 
in  the  cider-barrel  as  in  the  wliisky-barrcl." 
**  Whew  I "  whistled  Jack. 

*  Fact,"  said  Julia.  "  I've  seen  his  eyes  my  «wn  self. 
They  look  just  like  little  glass  beads,  and  they  come  up 
all  over  the  apple-juice  as  soon  as  it  begins  to  r?J 


4  HARMLESS  CIDER. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  demanded  Jack, 
with  an  angry  scowl. 

"About  how  cider  is  made,"  answered  Julia  inno- 
cently. "  When  the  apple-juice  begins  to  rot— or  fer* 
ment,  if  that  suits  you  better — the  eyes  come  up,  and 
those  who  are  fools  enough  to  drink  it  say,  4  That  be- 
gins to  have  a  little  "  tang."  It's  just  right  now.'  You 
see  the  •  mocker '  begins  to  fool  them,  and  the  mere 
they  drink  the  more  they  want.  Catch  me  swallowing 
any  of  the  vile  stuff ! " 

*  Most  everybody  does  drink  cider,  though,"  said 
Jack  deprecatingly. 

"No,  sir;  nDt  temperance  boys  and  girls,"  answered 
Julia ;  "  and  they  are  somebody.  Only  a  week  or  two 
ago  I  read  of  two  brothers  who  grew  noisy  and  quarrel- 
some drinking  cider — young  boys  they  were,  too. 
When  their  father  went  into  the  room  to  try  and  stop 
them,  one  of  them  drew  a  revolver  and  shot  his  father 
in  the  eye.    Cider  maae  him  do  it." 

"  Oh  !  horrible,  sis.    Can  that  be  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  it  is  true.  And  mother  says  she  knew  an 
old  drunkard,  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  who  was  once 
a  smart  man,  but  who  went  around  the  streets  begging 
for  cider,  ragged  and  miserable." 

"  Well,  sis,  if  that  is  the  way  of  it,  I'll  never  drink 
kaother  drop  the  longest  day  I  live,"  said  Jack. 

*Lpoken  like  my  own  brave  brother,"  said  Julia. 


Published  &>    he  National  Temperance  Society  and  Publicatiom 
House,  No.  58  Reade  Street,  New  York,  at  $2  per  Thousand. 


QOW  TO  MAKE  UP  A  QUARREL 

William  Ladd  was  the  President  of  the 
American  Peace  Society,  and  he  believed 
that  the  principles  of  peace,  carried  out, 
would  maintain  good-will  among  neigh 
bors  as  well  as  among  nations. 

But  there  was  a  time  when  he  had  not 
fully  considered  this  subject  —  had  not 
thought  much  about  it,  as  I  dare  say  my 
young  readers  have  not ;  and  he  believed 
that  if  a  man  struck  him  a  blow,  it  was 
fair  and  best  to  strike  right  back  again 

No.  3 


2 


without  considering  if  there  were  not  sorat 
better  way  of  overcoming  the  offender  ;  or 
if  a  man  did  him  an  injury,  why,  as  people 
commonly  say,  he  would  give  him  as  good 
is  he  sent. 

He  then  had  a  farm ;  and  a  poor  mao 
vho  lived  on  land  adjoining  his,  neglected 
to  keep  up  a  fence  which  it  was  his  busi- 
ness to  keep  in  order ;  and  in  consequence, 
his  sheep  got  into  William  Ladd's  wheat- 
field  and  did  much  mischief.  William 
Ladd  told  his  man  Sam,  to  go  to  the 
neighbor  and  tell  him,  he  must  mend  the 
fence  and  keep  the  sheep  out.  But  the 
sheep  came  in  again,  and  William  Ladd, 
who  was  a  very  orderly  man  himself,  was 
provoked.  "  Sam,"  he  said,  "  go  to  that 
fellow,  and  tell  him  if  he  don't  keep  his 
sheep  out  of  my  wheat-field,  I'll  have  them 
shot."  Even  this  did  not  do  ;  the  sheep 
were  in  again. 

"  Sam,"  said  William  Ladd,  "  take  my 
gun  and  shoot  those  sheep." 

"  I  had  rather  not,"  said  Sam. 

"  Rather  not,  Sam !  why,  there  are  but 
three — it's  no  great  job." 

"  No,  sir ;  but  the  poor  man  has  but 
three  in  the  world,  and  I  am  not  the  per- 
son that  likes  to  shoot  a  poor  man's  sheep." 

"  Then  the  poor  man  should  take  propel 

No.  3 


3 


rare  of  them  ;  I  gave  him  warning  ;  whj 
didn't  he  mend  his  fence  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  guess  it  was  because  you 
6ent  him  a  rough  kind  of  a  message ;  it 
made  him  mad,  and  so  he  would  not  do  it." 

"  I  considered  a  few  minutes,"  said  Wil- 
liam Ladd,  "  and  then  I  told  Sam  to  put 
the  horse  in  the  buggy. 

f? 1  Shall  I  put  in  the  gun  ?'  said  Sam. 

"  J  No,'  said  I.  I  saw  Sam  half  smiled, 
but  1  said  nothing.  I  got  into  my  buggy 
and  drove  up  to  my  neighbor's.  He  lived 
a  mile  off,  and  I  had  a  good  deal  of  time  to 
think  the  matter  over. 

When  I  drove  up  to  the  house  the  man 
was  chopping  wood ;  there  were  but  few 
sticks  of  wood,  and  the  house  was  poor, 
and  my  heart  was  softened.  4  Neighbor,' 
I  called  out ;  the  man  looked  sulky  and 
did  not  lift  up  his  head.  •  Come,  come, 
neighbor,'  said  I,  'I  have  come  with 
friendly  feelings  to  you,  and  you  must 
meet  me  half  way.'  He  perceived  1  was 
in  earnest,  laid  down  his  axe  and  came  to 
the  wagon.  *  Now,  neighbor.'  said  1, 
1  we  have  both  been  in  the  wrong  :  you 
neglected  your  fence,  and  I  got  angry  and 
sent  you  a  provoking  message.  Now  let's 
both  face  about,  and  both  do  rignt,  ano 
feel  right.    I'll  forgive  and  j^i  si**Jl 

No.  3 


4 


'  £i've  Now  let's  shake  hands.'  He  didn't 
quite  feel  like  giving  me  his  hand,  but  h« 
let  me  take  it. 

" 4  Now,'  said  I,  4  neighbor,  drive  your 
sheep  down  to  my  south  pasture ;  they  shall 
share  with  my  sheep  till  next  spring  ;  you 
ih-A  11  have  all  the  yield,  and  next  summer 
we'll  start  fair.' 

44  His  hand  was  no  longer  dead  in  mine. 
He  gave  me  a  good  friendly  grasp  The 
tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  said, 4 1 
^§uess  you  are  a  Christian,  William  Ladd, 
after  all.' 

44  And  that  little  fracas  with  my  neigh- 
bor about  the  sheep  was,"  said  William 
Ladd, 44  the  first  step  to  my  devoting  my- 
telf  to  the  Peace  Society." 


Tract  Ansociation  of    -»'-«wi#  «»>. 

No.  :i 


No.  ro. 


II 

APRAID  OP  WHAT? 

BY  MBS.  J.  P-  BAIAAKD. 

EIGHT  bravely  did  Donald  inarch  home  through  the 
deep  snow  that  December  afternoon.   He  had  resisted 


2 


AFRAID  OF  WHAT? 


a  great  temptation,  and  his  heart  was  warm  with  the 
peculiar  joy  such  a  victory  is  sure  to  bring.  Stout 
boots  for  his  feet,  warm  wool  mittens  for  his  hands,  a 
lined  overcoat  for  his  back,  were  not  so  warming  as  a 
sense  of  a  temptation  resisted  for  his  heart  ! 

"It's  awful  cold,"  said  Glarence  Brady,  after  the 
school  closed  at  four  o'clock,  1 '  and  some  of  us  have  a 
long  walk  through  the  snow.  Come  into  Phillips's, 
and  I'll  stand  treat.  Gome  on,  Donald,  Jim  Price, 
and  Tom  White — we  four.  I'll  stand  you  on  a  good 
warm  sling  ;  and  if  any  of  you  have  a  mind  for  nuts, 
you  can  put  down  for  them  !  "  Donald  started  on, 
while  the  rest  hesitated. 

"  I  reckon  Don  has  no  small  change  ! "  said  one. 

"  Afraid  of  his  mother  !  "  cried  Tom  White. 

"No,  it's  the  pennies,  I'll  be  bound,"  said  Cla. 
rence. 

Donald's  face  grew  red  in  the  momentary  struggle 
whether  to  double  up  his  fist  and  show  that  he  wasn't 
afraid  of  his  strength,  or  to  stride  on  and  take  no 
notice  of  their  taunts.  Just  then  an  ice -hard  ball 
struck  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  his  face  grew  redder ; 
but  he  turned  round  and  said  :  "  Hold  on,  boys;  I'm 
not  afraid  of  your  snow-balling,  and  I'm  not  afraid  of 
my  pennies,  though  I  never  did  boast  of  many  ;  but 
there's  two  things  I  am  afraid  of." 

"  Whiskey,  and  what  else  ? "  said  Jim  Price. 

"Not  that  exactly.  I'm  a  little  afraid  of  myself, 
and  more  afraid  of  the  devil." 

"That's  a  stunner,"  said  Clarence.    "I  hope  you 


WHAT  CAN  I  DO? 


3 


don't  mean  to  give  such  an  amiable  title  to  any  of  the 
present  company  ? " 

"By  no  means.  But  I  know  where  he  stays,  and 
that  a  large  share  of  his  time.  He  reaches  out  after 
boys  as  well  as  men,  and  his  chain  is  pretty  long ;  the 
only  way  to  be  quite  safe  is  not  to  get  within  reach  of 
his  beat.'' 

And  Donald,  after  giving  his  brief  temperance 
lecture,  went  home  to  gladden  a  widowed  mother's 
heart.  And  he  did  gladden  it,  and  take  from  her  the 
heaviest  of  her  life-burdens  by  a  manly  straightfor- 
wardness which  gave  him  true  success  in  life. 

Boys,  how  long  do  you  think  that  "  chain  "  is  when 
its  owner  is  concealed  in  a  dram-shop  ?  I  should  not 
wish  you  to  risk  it  too  near  the  outer  door. 


WHAT  CAN  I  DO? 

BY  MARY  DWINELL  CHELLIS. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  stop  it  ? "  After  listening  to 
a  prolonged  discussion  on  the  subject  of  temperance,  a 
bright  boy  asked  his  father  this  question.  The  open- 
ing of  a  liquor-saloon  in  the  village  had  provoked 
much  criticism,  and  was  considered  a  positive  mis- 
fortune by  the  better  part  of  the  community.  But 
here,  as  elsewhere,  there  were  those  who  claimed  that 
whatever  was  recognized  by  government  as  a  laudable 
business  ought  not  to  be  condemned. 

"  It  will  do  more  to  corrupt  our  boys  and  young  men 
than  every  other  influence,"  said  Mr.  Poland,  as  his 
friend  was  leaving  him.  "It  ought  to  be  shut  up 
within  twenty-four  hours.  No  sale  of  liquor  should  be 
allowed  in  town." 


4 


WHAT  CAN  I  DO? 


"  Then  why  don't  you  stop  it,  father  ?   I  would  if  I 

was  you." 

' '  You  would  find  it  a  hard  thing  to  do,  my  son.  I 
intend  to  do  my  part,  and  you  must  do  your  part." 

"  My  part  !    What  can  I  do  ?"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"You  can  stay  away  from  the  saloon.  Never  go 
into  it." 

"  Of  course  I  should  stay  away.  I  shouldn't  think 
of  going  into  it.  It  isn't  likely,  either,  that  the  saloon- 
keeper would  want  such  a  boy  as  I  am  in  there.  It's 
the  men  he  wants,  isn't  it  ? " 

"Yes,  and  the  boys  too.  Boys  grow  to  be  men  ; 
and  men  are  almost  certain  to  keep  the  habits  they 
learned  when  they  were  boys.  If  you  don't  go  into  a 
liquor-saloon  for  the  next  ten  years,  you  win  not  be 
very  likely  to  go  at  all.  Now,  don't  you  see  that  a  boy 
like  you  can  do  something  towards  stopping  the  sale  of 
liquor  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  father;  but  I  am  only  one  of  all  the  boys 
in  the  world  ;  and  then  there  are  all  the  girls  besides." 

"  But  if  each  one  would  do  as  much  as  you  can  do? 
the  next  generation  would  settle  the  liquor  question 
without  any  trouble." 

"  Oh  !  I  see  now.  The  thing  is  to  get  all  the  boys 
and  girls  right,  so  when  they  grow  up  to  be  men  and 
women  they'll  keep  right." 

"  That's  it  exactly,  my  son  ;  and  there  isn't  a  boy  or 
girl  but  can  influence  some  other,  and  so  help  the 
cause  along.  We  are  looking  to  the  children  of  the 
country  to  set  right  this  matter  of  liquor-selling  and 
liquor-drinking.  If  we  can  get  them  enlisted  on  the 
side  of  total  abstinence,  time  will  bring  them  to  the 
front,  and  old  King  Alcohol  will  be  dethroned." 

Who  will  enlist  ? 

Published  by  the  National  Temperance  Society  and  Publication 
House,  No.  58  Reade  Street  (two  doors  west  of  Broad- 
way), New  York,  at  $2  per  thousand. 


THINGS  NEVER  DONE. 


THE  HOUSEHOLD  ANGEL 

"A  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

A  petty  cloud  between  the  two  had  fallen, — 
She  leaned  back,  proudly  silent,  in  her  chair ; 

He,  at  the  window,  stared  out  at  the  darkness, 
And  dark  his  own  brows  were; 

When  suddenly  a  baby's  shrill  cry  sounded 
'Mid  the  lace  draperies  of  its  dainty  bed, 

And  swift  as  with  one  thought  they  turned  together, 
Though  not  one  word  was  said. 

But  in  their  haste,  drawing  aside  the  cover 
About  the  crib,  it  chanced  that  their  hands  met; 

One  swift,  shy  glance  she  gave  him,  he  to  her, 
And  lo  !  her  eyes  were  wet. 

She  raised  the  child  with  tender  mother  care 
To  soothe  its  piteous  cry  of  vague  alarms, 

And  found  them  both,  herself  and  babe,  together, 
Clasped  close  in  his  strong  arms. 

Good  housekeeping. 


THINGS  NEVER  DONE. 

Greater  deeds  than  have  ever  been  seen, 
Brighter  songs  than  the  poet  has  sung, 

Are  the  things  that  are  dreamed  and  tried,  1  ween, 
But  which  have  never  been  done. 

The  lairest  picture  the  artist  can  paint 

Is  hung  on  the  wall  of  his  brain  : 
On  his  canvas  rests  but  the  shadow  faint 

Of  what  he  wished  to  attain. 


226 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 


Above  success  hovers  ever  the  thought, 

Marring  sadly  its  bliss  ; 
Better  than  this  was  the  thing  I  sought — 

Better,  far  better  than  this  ! 

For  strive,  as  we  may,  we  cannot  grasp 

The  visions  that  lure  us  on — 
They  are  ever  held  in  our  mental  clasp, 

And  our  best  is  never  done. 

But  this  fancy  does  oft  my  senses  woo  ; 

That  perhaps  in  the  world  to  come 
We  shall  find  the  things  we  have  tried  to  do, 

But  which  have  never  been  done. 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  moldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  moldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart!  and  cease  repining  ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 
Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


POEM  FOR  RECITATION. 


227 


POEM  FOR  RECITATION. 

EASTER. 

(Sent  us  by  Mrs.  G.  W.  Cooper,  of  Junction  City,  Kan.) 

My  sweet  little  neighbor  Bessie 
I  thought  was  busy  with  play, 

When  she  turned,  and  brightly  questioned, 
"Say,  what  is  the  Easter  day?" 

"  Has  nobody  told  you,  darling — 
Do  they  Teed  His  Lambs'  like  this?" 

I  gathered  her  to  my  bosom, 
And  gave  her  a  tender  kiss. 

Away  went  the  cloak  for  dolly, 

And  away  went  dolly  too, 
As  again  she  eagerly  questioned, 

With  eyes  so  earnest  and  blue; 

"Is  it  like  birthdays  or  Christmas — 

Or  like  Thanksgiving  Day; 
Do  we  just  be  good  like  Sunday, 

Or  run  and  frolic  and  play? 

" 1  know  there's  flowers  to  it, 

And  that  is  most  all  I  know  ; 
I've  got  a  lovely  rosebush, 

And  a  bud  begins  to  grow." 

Then  in  words  most  few  and  simple 

I  told  the  gentle  child 
The  story  whose  end  is  Easter — 

The  life  of  the  Undefiled. 
Told  of  the  manger  of  Bethlehem, 

And  about  the  glittering  star, 
That  guided  the  feet  of  the  shepherds 

Watching  their  flocks  from  afar. 


220 


POEM  FOR  RECITATION. 


Told  of  the  lovely  Mother, 
And  the  Baby  who  was  born 

To  live  on  the  earth  among  us 
Bearing  its  sorrows  and  scorn. 

And  then  I  told  of  the  life  He  lived 
Those  wonderful  thirty  years, 

Sad,  weary,  troubled,  forsaken, 
In  this  world  of  sin  and  tears, 

Until  I  came  to  the  shameful  death 
That  the  Lord  of  Glory  died, 

Then  the  tender  little  maiden 
Uplifted  her  voice  and  cried. 

I  came  at  length  to  the  garden 
Where  they  laid  His  form  away, 

And  then  in  the  course  of  telling 
I  came  to  the  Easter  Day. 

The  day  when  sorrowing  women 
Came  there  to  the  grave  to  moan, 

And  the  lovely  shining  angels 
Had  rolled  away  the  stone. 

1  think  I  made  her  understand 

As  well  as  childhood  can, 
About  the  glorified  risen  life 

Of  Him  who  was  God  and  Man. 

This  year  the  fair  Easter  lilies 
Will  gleam  through  a  mist  of  tears, 

For  I  shall  not  see  sweet  Bessie 
In  all  of  the  coming  years. 


POEM  FOR  RECITATION. 


When  the  snow  lay  white  and  thickest 

She  quietly  went  away 
To  learn  from  the  lips  of  angels 

The  meaning  of  Easter  Day. 

We  put  on  the  little  body 

The  garments  worn  in  life, 
And  laid  her  deep  in  the  frozen  earth 

Away  from  all  noise  and  strife. 

We  took  all  the  dainty  playthings, 

And  the  dollies  new  and  old, 
And  placed  them  in  a  sacred  spot 

With  a  tress  of  shining  gold. 

Were  it  not  for  the  star  of  Bethlehem, 

And  the  dawn  of  Easter  Day, 
It  would  be  to  us  most  bitter 

To  put  our  darling  away. 

But  we  know  that  as  the  hard  brown  earth 

Holds  lilies  regal  and  white, 
So  the  lifeless,  empty,  useless  clay 

Held  once  an  angel  of  light. 

And  1  hope  on  the  Easter  morning 

To  look  from  the  grave  away, 
Thinking  not  of  the  child  that  was, 

But  the  child  that  is  to-day. 

Emily  Baker  Smalle. 


"GOD  HATH  HIS  PLAN  FOR  EVERY  MAN." 


"GOD  HATH  HIS  PLAN  FOR  EVERY  MAN." 

Take  this  maxim  home  to  your  heart, 

If  groping  in  earth's  shadows  ; 
And  the  blossoms  of  faith  and  hope  will  start, 

And  brighten  life's  dreary  meadows, 
And  the  clouds  give  place  to  sunlight's  gold, 
And  the  rocks  grow  green  'neath  the  mosses ; 
"  God  hath  His  plan 
For  every  man,'1 
Though  mingled  with  flowers  and  crosses. 

Though  weary  and  long  the  time  may  seem, 

Ere  the  veil  of  the  future  be  lifted, 
And  many  a  radiant  hope  and  dream 

Have  into  oblivion  drifted  ; 
Yet  after  a  while  the  light  will  come, 
And  after  a  while  the  glory ; 
"  God  hath  His  plan 
For  every  man," 
And  the  angels  whisper  the  story. 

Then  why  should  ye  murmur,  and  sigh,  and  fret, 

And  follow  each  bent  and  calling? 
The  violet  patiently  waits  to  be  wet 

With  the  dews  at  the  night-time  falling  ; 
And  the  robin  knows  that  the  spring  will  come 
Though  the  winds  are  round  her  wailing  ; 
"  God  hath  His  plan 
For  every  man," 
And  His  ways  are  never  failing. 


THE  TWO  MYSTERIES. 


231 


Then  gird  ye  on  the  armor  of  faith, 

And  onward  your  way  keep  pressing  : 
It  may  be  through  valleys  of  carnage  and  death, 

Or  up  on  the  Mount  of  Blessing ; 
And,  if  by  His  counsel  guided,  at  last 
He'll  lead  you  up  to  your  glory  ; 
"God  hath  His  plan 
For  every  man," 
And  the  angels  whisper  the  story. 


THE  TWO  MYSTERIES. 

We  know  not  what  it  is,  dear,  this  sleep  so  deep  and  still ; 
The  folded  hands,  the  awful  calm,  the  cheek  so  pale  and  chill, 
The  lids  that  will  not  lift  again,  though  we  may  call  and  call, 
The  strange  white  solitude  of  peace  that  settles  over  all. 

We  know  not  what  it  means,  dear,  this  desolate  heart  pain, 
The  dread  to  take  our  daily  way,  and  walk  in  it  again. 
We  know  not  to  what  sphere  the  loved  who  leave  us  go, 
Nor  why  we're  left  to  wander  still,  nor  why  we  do  not  know. 

But  this  we  know  •  Our  loved  and  lost,  if  they  should  come  this 
day — 

Should  come  and  ask  us,  What  is  life  ?  not  one  of  us  could  say. 

Life  is  a  mystery  as  deep  as  death  can  ever  be  ; 

Yet,  O  how  sweet  it  is  to  us,  this  life  we  live  and  see  ! 

Then  might  they  say,  those  vanished  ones,  and  blessed  is  the 
thought, 

So  death  is  sweet  to  us,  beloved,  though  we  may  tell  you  naught. 
We  may  not  tell  it  to  the  quick,  this  mystery  of  death  ; 
Ye  may  not  tell  it  if  ye  would,  the  mystery  of  breath. 

25 


232 


SPEAK  TENDERLY. 


The  child  that  enters  life  comes  not  with  knowledge  or  intent ; 
So  those  who  enter  death  must  £0  as  little  children  sent. 
Nothing  is  known,  but  I  believe  that  God  is  overhead  ; 
And  as  life  is  to  the  living,  so  death  is  to  the  dead. 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge  in  Boston  Transcript. 


SPEAK  TENDERLY. 

When  the  circle's  all  complete, 
When  the  home  is  bright  with  cheer, 

When  we  mourn  no  vacant  seat, 
When  we  miss  no  dear  face  there, 

Then  how  tender  should  the  tone 

Be  to  those  we  call  our  own! 

Soon,  ah,  soon  the  circle  breaks, 
Soon  the  darksome  shadows  come; 

Death,  the  mighty,  often  makes 
Light  give  place  to  grief  and  gloom. 

O,  let  then  our  actions  show 

All  the  tenderness  we  know! 

Soon,  ah,  soon  will  memory  bring 
Every  harsh  and  hasty  tone 

To  the  heart  with  bitter  sting, 
That  will  bid  us  weep  and  moan. 

Ere  you're  sunder' d  far  apart, 

Clasp  the  dear  ones  to  your  heart. 

Now,  let  these  our  very  own, 
Know,  indeed,  how  much  we  love, 

Let  us  e'er,  by  act  and  tone, 
All  our  warm  affection  prove. 

O,  let  us  be  true  to-day, 

Ere  we  weep  o'er  lifeless  clay! 


THE  LOVED  AND  LOST. 


233 


THE  LOVED  AND  LOST. 

"The  loved  and  lost  f"  why  do  we  call  them  lost, 
Because  we  miss  them  from  our  onward  road  ? 
God's  unseen  angel  o'er  our  pathway  crost, 
Looked  on  us  all,  and  loving  them  the  most, 
Straightway  relieved  them  of  life's  weary  load. 

They  are  not  lost ;  they  are  within  the  door 
That  shuts  out  loss,  and  every  hurtful  thing, 

With  angels  bright,  and  loved  ones  gone  before, 

In  their  Redeemers  presence  evermore, 
And  God  Himself  their  Lord,  and  Judge,  and  King. 

And  this  we  call  a  loss  ;  O  selfish  sorrow 

Of  selfish  hearts  !  O  we  of  little  faith  ! 
Let  us  look  round,  some  argument  to  borrow 
Why  we  in  patience  shouM  await  the  morrow 

That  surely  must  succeed  this  night  of  death  1 

Aye,  look  upon  this  dreary  desert  path, 

The  thorns  and  thistles  whereso'er  we  turn  ; 
What  trials  and  what  tears,  what  wrongs  and  wrath, 
What  struggles  and  what  strife  the  journey  hath  ! 
They  have  escaped  from  these  ;  and  lo  I  we  mourn. 

Ask  the  poor  sailor,  when  the  wreck  is  done, 

Who  with  his  treasure  strove  the  shore  to  reach, 
While  with  the  raging  waves  he  battled  on— 
Was  it  not  joy,  where  every  joy  seemed  gone, 
To  see  his  loved  ones  landed  on  the  beach  ? 

A  poor  wayfarer,  leading  by  the  hand 

A  little  child,  had  halted  by  the  well 
To  wash  from  off  her  feet  the  clinging  sand, 
And  tell  the  tired  boy  of  that  bright  land 

Where,  this  long  journey  past,  they  longed  to  dwell. 


234 


"COMFORTING  WORDS. 


When  lo  !  the  Lord,  who  many  mansions  had, 

Drew  near,  and  looked  upon  the  suffering  twain, 
Then  pitying  spake,  44  Give  me  the  little  lad  : 
In  strength  renewed,  and  glorious  beauty  clad. 
I'll  bring  him  with  me  when  I  come  again/' 

Did  she  make  answer  selfishly  and  wrong — 

"  Nay,  but  the  woes  I  feel,  he  too  must  share  I" 
Or  rather,  bursting  into  grateful  song, 
She  went  her  way  rejoicing,  and  made  strong 
To  struggle  on,  since  he  was  freed  from  care. 

We  will  do  likewise  ;  death  hath  made  no  breach 
In  love  and  sympathy,  in  hope  and  trust ; 

No  outward  sign  or  sound  our  ears  can  reach  ; 

But  there's  an  inward,  spiritual  speech 
That  greets  us  still,  though  mortal  tongues  be  dust. 

It  bids  us  do  the  work  that  they  laid  down — 

Take  up  the  song  where  they  broke  off  the  strain  ; 
So  journeying  till  we  reach  the  heavenly  town, 
Where  are  laid  up  our  treasures  and  our  crown, 
And  our  lost  loved  ones  will  be  found  again. 


"COMFORTING  WORDS." 

"Search  the  Scriptures  :  for  in  them  ye  think  ye  have  eternal  life  :  and  they  are  they  which 

testify  of  Me."— John  v:  39. 

Art  thou  worn  and  heavy-laden, 

By  earth's  trials  sore  opprest  ? 
Hearken  to  the  Saviour's  promise, 

44  Come,  and  I  will  give  thee  rest 
Lighter  far  would  seem  thy  sorrows 

Did  ye  heed  His  blessed  Word, 
And,  not  faithless,  but  believing, 

44  Cast  thy  burden  on  the  Lord." 


"COMFORTING  WORDS.' 


Though  the  way  seem  long  and  weary, 

Earthly  aid  removed  from  thee, 
Christ  has  promised — "  As  thy  day  is, 

Even  so  thy  strength  shall  be." 
Over  paths  most  rough  and  stony, 

He  will  hold  thy  footsteps  up, 
And  in  sore  and  grievous  trouble, 

Help  thee  drink  the  bitter  cup. 

Is  a  loved  otie  taken  from  thee, 

Murmur  not  beneath  the  rod, 
Know'st  thou  not  that  those  most  chastened 

Are  the  best  beloved  of  God  ? 
Though  thy  heart  be  sore  and  bleeding, 

From  thy  treasure  called  to  part, 
Comes  there  not  to  thee  this  message — 

"  I  am  nigh  thee  broken  heart  ?" 

"  Where  thy  treasure,  there  thy  heart  is," 

And  whene'er  disposed  to  roam, 
Tis  the  love  you  bore  that  dear  one, 

Draws  thy  wandering  footsteps  home. 
This  the  thought  that  cheers  thy  sorrow 

When  thine  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
Though  "  To  me  he  shall  return  not, 

I  may  some  time  go  to  him/' 

Through  still  deeper  waves  of  trouble 

God  may  call  thee  yet  to  go, 
'Tis  to  draw  thee  closer  to  Him, 

Wean  thy  thoughts  from  things  below. 
Harden  not  thy  heart  against  Him, 

Never  doubt  his  care  for  thee, 
"Greater  love  than  this  hath  no  man, 

That  He  gave  His  life  for  thee." 


236  THE  LOST  KISS. 

Though  thy  griefs  should  nigh  o'erwhelm  thee, 

Each  one  seem  more  bitter  still, 
Strive  for  grace  to  say  most  humbly, 

"  Lol  I  come  to  do  Thy  will." 
God  shall  be  forever  with  thee, 

Help  thee  tread  the  narrow  way, 
And  through  deepest,  blackest  darkness, 

Guide  thee  to  His  perfect  day. 

Then,  thy  journey  safely  ended, 

From  all  fears  thy  soul  set  free, 
Thou  shalt,  in  thy  Father's  mansion 

Find  a  place  prepared  for  thee — 
No  more  death,  nor  pain,  nor  sorrow, 

Never  more  from  home  to  stray, 
God  shall  dry  thy  tears,  and  tell  thee 

Former  things  are  passed  away. 

There  with  angels  and  archangels 

Will  ye  laud  his  glorious  name, 
Saying,  Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

Ever  through  all  time  the  same. 
Would  ye  mourn  o'er  earthly  trials, 

Be  by  troubles  so  oppressed, 
Were  ye  looking  ever  upward, 

Toward  that  Home  of  Perfect  Rest? 


THE  LOST  KISS. 

i  put  by  the  half-written  poem, 
While  the  pen  idly  trailed  in  my  hand, 

Writes  on,  "  Had  I  words  to  complete  it, 
Who'd  read  it,  or  who'd  understand?" 


THE  LOST  KISS. 


But  the  little  bare  feet  on  the  stairway, 
And  the  faint,  smothered  laugh  in  the  hall, 

And  the  eerie-low  lisp  on  the  silence, 
Cry  up  to  me  over  it  all. 

So  I  gather  it  up — where  was  broken 

The  tear-faded  thread  of  my  theme, 
Telling  how,  as  one  night  I  sat  writing, 

A  fairy  broke  in  on  my  dream, 
A  little  inquisitive  fairy — 

My  own  little  girl,  with  the  gold 
Of  the  sun  in  her  hair,  and  the  dewy 

Blue  eyes  of  the  fairies  of  old. 

'Twas  the  dear  little  girl  that  I  scolded— 

"  For  was  it  a  moment  like  this," 
I  said,  "  when  she  knew  I  was  busy, 

To  come  romping  in  for  a  kiss  ? 
Come  rowdying  up  from  her  mother, 

And  clamoring  there  at  my  knee 
For  '  One  'ittle  kiss  for  my  dolly, 

And  one  'ittle  uzzer  for  me  ?' " 

God  pity  the  heart  that  repelled  her 
And  the  cold  hands  that  turned  her  away ! 

And  take  from  the  lips  that  denied  her 
This  answerless  prayer  of  to-dav  ! 

Take,  Lord,  from  my  mem'ry  forever 
That  pitiful  sob  of  despair, 

And  the  patter  and  trip  of  the  little  bare  feet, 
And  the  one  piercing  cry  on  the  stair ! 

1  put  by  the  half-written  poem, 
While  the  pen,  idly  trailed  in  my  hand, 

Writes  on,  "  Had  I  words  to  complete  it, 
Who'd  read  it,  or  who'd  understand  ?" 


DIMES  AMD  DOLLARS. 


But  the  little  bare  feet  on  the  stairway, 
And  the  faint,  smothered  laugh  in  the  hall, 

And  the  eerie-low  lisp  on  the  silence, 
Cry  up  to  me  over  it  all. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


DIMES  AND  DOLLARS. 

"  Dimes  and  dollars  !  dollars  and  dimes  !  " 
Thus  an  old  miser  rang  the  chimes, 
As  he  sat  by  the  side  of  an  open  box, 
With  iron  angles  and  massive  locks  ; 
And  he  heaped  the  glittering  coin  on  high, 
And  cried  in  delirious  ecstasy — 
"Dimes  and  dollars  i  dollars  and  dimes  !" 

A  sound  on  the  gong,  and  the  miser  rose, 
And  his  laden  coffer  did  quickly  close 
And  lock  secure.    "  These  are  the  times 
For  a  man  to  look  after  his  dollars  and  dimes. 
A  letter  !  Ha  !  from  my  prodigal  son. 
The  old  tale— poverty.    Pshaw,  begone  ! 
Why  did  he  marry  when  I  forbade  ? 

"As  he  has  sown,  so  he  must  reap ; 

But  I  my  dollars  secure  will  keep. 

A  sickly  wife  and  starving  times  ? 

He  should  have  wed  with  dollars  and  dimes." 

Thickly  the  hour  of  midnight  fell ; 

Doors  and  windows  were  bolted  well. 

"  Ha  !"  cried  the  miser,  "  not  so  bad  ;  — 

A  thousand  dollars  to-day  IVe  made. 


DIMES  AND  DOLLARS. 


Money  makes  money ;  these  are  the  times 
To  double  and  treble  the  dollars  and  dimes. 
Now  to  sleep,  and  to-morrow  to  plan  ; — 
Rest  is  sweet  to  a  wearied  man." 
And  he  fell  asleep  with  the  midnight  chimes- 
Dreaming  of  glittering  dollars  and  dimes. 

The  sun  rose  high,  and  its  beaming  ray 

Into  the  miser's  room  found  its  way, 

It  moved  from  the  foot  till  it  lit  the  head 

Of  the  miser's  low  uncurtained  bed  ; 

And  it  seemed  to  say  to  him,  "Sluggard,  awake ; 

Thou  hast  a  thousand  dollars  to  make. 

"Up,  man,  up  !"  How  still  was  the  place, 
As  the  bright  ray  fell  on  the  miser's  face ! 
Ha  !  the  old  miser  at  last  is  dead, 
Dreaming  of  gold,  his  spirit  fled, 
And  he  left  behind  but  an  earthly  clod 
Akin  to  the  dross  that  he  made  his  god. 

What  now  avail  the  chinking  chimes 

Of  dimes  and  dollars  !  dollars  and  dimes  ! 

Men  of  the  times  !  men  of  the  times  ! 

Content  may  not  rest  with  dollars  and  dimes. 

Use  them  well,  and  their  use  sublimes 

The  mineral  dross  of  the  dollars  and  dimes. 

Use  them  ill,  and  a  thousand  crimes 

Spring  from  a  coffer  of  dollars  and  dimes. 

Men  of  the  times  !  men  of  the  times  1 

Let  Charity  double  with  your  dollars  and  dimes. 


240 


A  HAPPY  PAIR. 


A  HAPPY  PAIR. 

The  yellow  sand,  the  bright  blue  sky, 

The  broad  expanse  of  sea, 
The  ships  in  sunshine  passing  by, 

Bring  back  young  days  to  me. 

We  picked  up  pebbles,  years  ago, 

And  pink  shells  on  the  shore, 
When  sister  Kate — your  aunt,  you  know 

Was  six,  and  I  was  four. 

We  built  big  castles  on  the  sand, 
With  tunnels  through  for  trains, 

Which  at  the  last,  though  wisely  planned, 
Fell  in  for  all  our  pains! 

Thus  disappointment  dashed  our  joy, 

And  troubles,  not  a  few — 
When  father  was  a  little  boy, 

And  aunt  was  young  like  you. 

I  think  of  all  her  love  for  me  ! 

How  fondly  round  my  waist, 
Seated  together  by  the  sea, 

Her  gentle  arm  she  placed  ! 

The  castles,  children,  that  we  build 

May  fall  for  all  our  pains, 
But  still  with  joy  our  lives  are  filled 

If  only  love  remains  ! 

J  R.  Eastwoc 


A  RIDE  ON  SANDS. 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILL! 


CONTENT^  OljlEjlJlAL  REdIn\TH# 

FOR  SCHOOL  AND  HOME  ENTERTAINMENTS. 

No.  1.— Dark  Eyed  Mehetabel.  The  House  on  the  Hill.  The  Sewing  Society. 
Death  of  Grandmother  White.  My  Little  Girl  in  Heaven.  Grandpa's  Old  Brown 
Cow.  How  We  Tried  to  Lick  the  Teacher.  Our  Lost  Pearls.  Columbia  Crum.  Old 
Memories.   Laborer  and  Priest.   The  Backwoods  Baby. 

No.  2.— Solomon  Ray.  Kate  Shelly.  Cute  Little  Mary.  Dave  Driggs.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Coker  Chugg.  A  Winter  Song.  True  Womanhood.  About  Widows.  The 
Storm  Spirits.   Little  Tim.   The  Debating  Society.   About  Widowers. 

No.  3.— The  King  and  the  Child.  "Boys,  Our  Way  Lies  There."  Big  Ben  Bol- 
ton. The  Ghost  of  Goshen.  Going  for  the  Cows.  Brave  Alta  Wayne.  Little  Nan. 
The  Old  Settlers'  Meeting.   Bird  Song. 

No.  4.— The  Thunderstorm.  Deacon  Ezekiel  Day.  Ichabod  Hawkins  to  the 
Jury.  Christmas  Eve.  Burning  of  a  Mississippi  Steamboat.  Eillen.  Family  Jars. 
Old'  Maids.  The  Bachelor  Who  Bothered  Me.  Twice  Asleep.  "  Backbone."  Time 
Friendship. 

No.  5.— The  Old  Clock  in  the  Corner.  We're  Going  Out  West  To-day.  How 
Amos  Proposed.  Farmer  Brown's  Dream.  The  Story  of  "Little  Moses."  Farmer 
Brown  on  the  Railroad  Question.  Alderman  Woodhead's  Watchdog.  Evening 
Chimes.   Thanksgiving  Day  at  Sugar  Hollow. 

No.  6.— The  Switchman's  Child.  The  Bride  of  Narragansett.  Two  Little  Empty 
i    Stockings.   The  Engineer's  Story.   The  Indiana  Woods.   The  Puritan's  Wife.  The 
Fisherman's  Story.    The  Western  Pioneers.    Girl  in  a  New  Brown  Hat.  Funny 
;    Deacon  Phinn.   How  to  get  Rid  of  an  Old  Widower.   Fourth  of  July  at  Ripton. 

No.  7,  RECITATIONS  FOR  LITTLE  BOYS. 

The  Farm  Boy.  Making  the  Best  of  It.  The  Western  Schoolma'am.  A  Small 
Boy's  Opinion  of  Girls.  At  Twenty-One.  Pluck.  Recitation  for  a  Small  Boy.  A 
Terrible  Time  With  the  Bees.  The  Happy  Old  Bachelor.  Seeking  a  Situation. 
That  Yellow  Dog.  Your  First  Sweetheart.  Aunt  Sarah.  True  Manhood.  Jack, 
the  Cow  Boy  of  the  Plains.   My  First  Pipe.   The  Jolly  Old  Blacksmith. 

No.  8,  RECITATIONS  FOR  LITTLE  GIRLS. 

My  Grandmother.  Grandmother  White's  House.  Only  a  Chicken.  Two  Maid- 
ens. Help  Me  Across.  Grandma's  Funeral.  Theresa  Trott.  AVhat  a  Girl  Thinks 
ot  Boys.  The  Farmer's  Wife.  Little  Maud.  Mollie  Maynard.  Blanche.  A  Happy 
Young  Girl.   Seven  Little  Bells  of  Brandon. 

No.  9,  SUNDAY  SCHOOL  RECITATIONS. 

"Sweet  Bye  and  Bye."  Alice's  Dream.  The  Prodigal's  Return.  "Jesus,  Lover  of 
My  Soul."  There's  a  Better  Time  Coming.  Uncle  Isaac's  Ride  for  Life.  Invocation, 
i  The  Nobility  of  Labor.  James  A.  Garfield.  Abraham  Lincoln.  Henry  W.  Long- 
fellow. Another  Year.  The  Home  on  the  Hillside.  Shall  We  Know  Each  Other 
There?  A  Memory  of  Home.  Sunshine  in  the  Soul.  Bright  are  the  Gates.  Christ- 
mas.  The  Hand  of  Time. 

No.  10,  FOR  TEMPERANCE  ENTERTAINMENTS. 

Intemperance.   The  Women's  Crusade.   Drifting  Down  the  Stream.   The  Cus- 
tom of  Treating.   The  Lost  Steamer.   The  Terrible  Ride  of  Peter  McBride.  Tem- 
perance Women.    'Tis  a  Stormy  Night.    The  Shadow  of  a  Crime.   Margery.   A  I 
Drunkard's  Excuse.    A  Midwinter  Night.    The  Golden  Calf.    The  Drunkard's  I 
Daughter.   Old  Tobias. 

No.  11,  HUMOROUS  RECITATIONS  FOR  ELOCUTIONISTS. 

TabithaTopp.   Nothing  But  Silence.   Pat  Burns'  Funeral.   Biddy  O'Rourke. 
Uncle  Isaac's  Match  Speculation.   My  Neighbors'  Dogs.   Mrs.  Hooker  and  the  Rat. 
Shadows  on  the  Curtain.   Fritz's  Courtship.   A  Row  in  the  Vestry.    A  Terrible 
Situation.   Handsome  Gh*l  in  a  Crowded  Car.    The  Haunted  Engineer.  Jacob 
1    Beers.   Dodt  Vas  Nodt  Peesness. 

No.  12,  DRAMATIC  RECITATIONS  FOR  ELOCUTIONISTS. 

On  the  Shore.  The  Roman  Sentinel.  The  Ride  of  Death.  Marcel.  Phaedre. 
Mad  Scene  from  Mizra.   Cleopatra  to  Antony.  Magdalen. 


II  Michi 


SOMEBODY'S  MOTHER, 

SOMEBODY'S  MOTHER. 

The  woman  was  old  and  ragged  and  gray, 
And  bent  with  the  chill  of  the  winter's  day  ; 
The  street  was  wet  with  a  recent  snow, 
And  the  woman's  feet  were  aged  and  slow. 

She  stood  at  the  crossing  and  waited  long, 
Alone,  uncared  for,  amid  the  throng 
Of  human  beings  who  passed  her  by, 
Nor  heeded  the  glance  of  her  anxious  eye. 

Down  the  street  with  laughter  and  shout, 
Glad  in  the  freedom  of  "  school  let  out " 
Came  the  boys  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
Hailing  the  snow  piled  white  and  deep. 

Past  the  woman  so  old  and  gray 

Hastened  the  children  on  their  way, 

Nor  offered  a  helping  hand  to  her, 

So  meek,  so  timid,  afraid  to  stir 

Lest  the  carriage  wheels  or  horses'  feet 

Should  crowd  her  down  in  the  slippery  street. 

At  last  came  one  of  the  merry  troop— 
The  gayest  laddie  of  all  the  group  ; 
He  paused  beside  her,  and  whispered  low, 
"I'll  help  you  across,  if  you  wish  to  go." 

Her  aged  hand  on  his  strong  young  arm 
She  placed,  and  so,  without  hurt  or  harm 
He  guided  the  trembling  feet  along, 
Proud  that  his  own  were  firm  and  strong. 


GRANNY'S  GRACE. 


Then  back  again  to  his  friends  he  went, 
His  young  heart  happy  and  well  content. 
"She's  somebody's  mother,  boys,  you  know, 
For  all  she's  aged  and  poor  and  slow ; 

"And  I  hope  some  fellow  will  lend  a  hand 
To  help  my  mother,  you  understand  ; 
If  ever  she's  poor  and  old  and  gray, 
When  her  own  dear  boy  is  far  away." 

And  "somebody's  mother"  bowed  low  her  head 
In  her  home  that  night,  and  the  prayer  she  said 
Was,  "  God  be  kind  to  the  noble  boy, 
Who  is  somebody's  son  and  pride  and  joy.'' 

Harper's  Weekly. 

GRANNY'S  GRACE. 

Do  I  say  my  grace  ?  Why,  of  course  I  do. 
At  dinner  ?   Yes,  and  at  breakfast  too  ; 
But  I  never  said  it  for  tea,  you  know, 
Till  I  stayed  with  granny  a  while  ago. 

I'd  come  in  warm  from  a  game  of  play, 
And  rushed  to  my  tea  in  a  heedless  way ; 
For,  somehow,  it  never  occurred  to  me 
To  say  my  grace  for  "a  cup  of  tea." 

But  granny  waited,  and  bent  her  head 

A  moment  over  the  homely  spread, 

And  her  gentle  hand  on  mine  was  pressed, 

While  thanks  were  given,  and  the  food  was  blessed. 

I  feel  it  still,  though  I'm  far  away, 
That  touch,  which  so  plainly  seemed  to  say — 
"No  gift  from  heaven  can  be  slight  or  small 
And  a  grateful  heart  gives  thanks  for  all !" 


GOLDEN  HAIR. 


Dear  granny  !  when  all  her  work  is  done, 
And  red  in  the  sky  grows  the  setting  sun ; 
When  nothing  is  heard  but  the  sheep-bell's  chime, 
And  lowing  of  cows  at  milking  time  ; 

When  fresh  as  the  rose  comes  the  evening  air, 
And  granny  rests  in  the  old  arm-chair  — 
Of  all  her  comforts,  it  seems  to  me, 
She  thanks  God  most  for  her  cup  of  tea  ! 

,  Ellis  Walton. 


GOLDEN  HAIR. 

Golden  Hair  climbed  upon  Grandpapa's  knee. 
Dear  little  Golden  Hair  I  tired  was  she, 
All  the  day  busy  as  busy  could  be. 

Up  in  the  morning  as  soon  as  'twas  light, 
Out  with  the  birds  and  the  butterflies  bright, 
Skipping  about  till  the  coming  of  night. 

Grandpapa  toyed  with  the  curls  on  her  head  : 
"  What  has  my  baby  been  doing,"  he  said, 
"Since  she  arose,  with  the  sun,  from  her  bed?" 

"  Pitty  much,"  answered  the  sweet  little  one  ; 
"  I  cannot  tell  so  much  things  I  have  done — 
Played  with  my  dolly,  and  feeded  my  Bunn. 

"  And  then  I  have  jumped  with  my  little  jump-rope, 
And  then  I  made,  out  of  some  water  and  soap. 
Bootiful  worlds,  mamma's  castles  of  hope. 

"  I  afterward  readed  in  my  picture-book, 

And  Bella  and  I,  we  went  down  to  look 

For  smooth  little  stones  by  the  side  of  the  brook. 


FAREWELL. 


"Then  I  corned  home,  and  I  eated  my  tea, 
And  then  I  climbed  up  on  Grandpapa's  knee, 
And  I  jes'  as  tired  as  tired  can  be." 

Lower  and  lower  the  little  head  prest, 
Until  it  drooped  upon  Grandpapa's  breast ; 
Dear  little  Golden  Hair  !  sweet  be  thy  rest. 

i 

We  are  but  children  ;  the  things  that  we  do 
Are  as  sports  of  the  baby  to  the  infinite  view 
That  marks  all  our  weakness,  and  pities  it,  too. 

God  grant  that  when  night  overshadows  our  way, 
And  we  shall  be  called  to  account  for  our  day, 
It  shall  find  us  as  guiltless  as  Golden  Hair's  lay. 

And,  oh,  when  a-weary,  may  we  be  so  blest 
As  to  sink,  like  the  innocent  child,  to  our  rest, 
And  feel  ourselves  clasped  to  the  infinite  breast  I 

F.  Burge  SmitR 


A  FAREWELL. 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you  ; 

No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and  gray ; 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can  leave  you 
For  every  day : 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever ; 

Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long ; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  Forever 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 

Charles  Kingsley, 


NUTTING  PARTY. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLIW 


A  FOURTH  OF  JULY  RECORD 


A  FOURTH  OF  JULY  RECORD. 

1   Was  a  wide-awake  little  boy 

*  Who  rose  at  break  of  day; 

O  Were  the  minutes  he  took  to  dress, 
^  Then  he  was  off  and  away. 

Were  his  leaps  when  he  cleared  the  stairs, 
Although  they  were  steep  and  high; 

Was  the  number  which  caused  his  haste, 
■  Because  it  was  Fourth  of  July. 

CT'  Were  his  pennies  which  went  to  buy 

*  A  package  of  crackers  red; 

Were  the  matches  which  touched  them  off, 
^  And  then — he  was  back  in  bed. 

H  Big  plasters  he  had  to  wear 
'   To  cure  his  fractures  sore; 

O  Were  the  visits  the  doctor  made 
^  Before  he  was  whole  once  more. 

Q  Were  the  dolorous  days  he  spent 
^  In  sorrow  and  pain;  but  then, 

C\  Are  the  seconds  he'll  stop  to  think 
^  Before  he  does  it  again. 


250 


CASTLE  BUILDING. 


CASTLE  BUILDING. 


"  Now  build  me  a  castle  1 " 
Cried  Teddy,  our  king; 

"A  beautiful  castle, 
With  turret  and  wing ; 

"  I'm  tired  of  houses, 

With  sheep-fold  and  shed; 
Now  build  a  great  castle, 

As  high  as  my  head  !  " 

Down  came  the  white  sheep-fold, 

The  dear  curly  sheep, 
And  red-cheeked  shepherdess 

Tossed  in  a  heap. 

And  high  rose  the  castle, 

Till  taller  than  Ted, 
H  Build  higher  !  "  he  ordered, 

"  Build  high  as  your  head  !  " 


Up,  up  rose  the  castle, 
A  building  quite  grand; 

Most  carefully  built  up 
By  John's  steady  hand. 

"  Build  one  story  higher  ! 1 
Our  architect  frowned, 

Obeyed,  the  walls  tottered— 
Swayed— fell  to  the  ground. 

Ah,  Teddy!  wee  ruler 
Of  hearts  and  of  home, 

Your  castle  is  fallen, 
And  shattered  its  dome; 

But  don't  feel  disheartened, 

My  dear  little  man, 
For  kind  brother  Johnny 

Will  build  it  again. 


WILLIES  ADVENTURE. 


WILLIE'S  ADVENTURE. 


"  Now,  Willie  dear,"  said  his  mamma, 
"  I'm  going  out — I'll  not  go  far;. 
And  when  Fm  gone,  mind  what  I  say, 
Stay  inside  the  gate  to  play.'7 


But  Willie  dear  had  lost  all  wish 
To  mix  mud  pies  in  his  tin  dish. 
He  watched  his  mother  out  of  sight, 
Then  pushed  the  gate  with  all  his  might. 


In  vain;  'twas  only  wasting  time; 
So  over  it  he  tried  to  climb. 
It  wouldn't  do;  he  was  so  fat, 
He  soon  gave  up  all  hopes  of  that. 


Just  then  came  trotting  up  to  him, 
His  little  dog,  black  curly  Jim, 
And  Willie  quickly  made  this  plan: 
"I'll  have  Jim  help  me,  for  he  can." 


So  he  and  Jim  they  scratched  away, 
Till  piles  of  dirt  around  them  lay. 
Under  the  fence  they  dug  a  hole, 
And  through  it  naughty  Willie  stole. 


Jim  quickly  followed,  full  of  play, 
Down  the  street  they  took  their  way. 
'Twas  full  two  hours  ere  they  were  found. 
Willie  was  seated  on  the  ground, 
Watching  the  merry  children  play, 
In  Allyn  Park,  a  mile  away. 


o 


Dramas  and  Dialogues. 


IN  SANTA-CLAUS-LAND. 

A  DRAMA  IN  ONE  ACT. 


CHARACTERS. 

Santa  Claus. 

Trent — Steward  and  general  overseer  to  Santa 

Clans. 
Mrs.  Trent. 

Dr.  Snufnuff — A  peripatetic  physician. 
Clip — A  boy.    Servant  to  Snufnuff. 
Ona — A  fairy 

,  COSTUMES. 

Santa  Claus. — Flowing  white  wig  and  beard,  dressing  gown  and  slippers.    On  entrance  in  Scene  III, 

a  large  fur-trimmed  cloak,  fur  cap,  Arctic  overshoes,  and  red  leggings. 
Trent. — Short,  red,  pleated  blouse,  belted  at  the  waist  (one  can  be  cheaply  made  of  cambric,)  trimmed 

with  large  buttons  ;  knee  trousers  of  gray  cloth,  gray  hose,  and  low  shoes  ;  cap  of  black  velvet  with 

long  gray  or  white  plume. 
Mrs.  Trent. — Any  tasteful  home  costume. 

Doctor  Snufnuff. — Black  coat,  vest,  and  knee  trousers,  white  hose,  low  shoes.    Cap  of  black  velvet 

without  visor;  hair  and  beard  long,  waving,  and  iron  gray.    Carries  a  physician's  medicine  case. 
Clip. — Plain,  dark  suit. 

Ona  — Short  dress  of  pink  or  white  tarlatan.    Pasteboard  wiags  covered  with  gilt  paper    Long  white 
wand. 

Scene.— Interior  of  Trent's  house  until  Scene  III,  when  it  changes  to  the  interior  of  Santa  Claus' 
house.   An  ordinary  sitting-room  or  parlor  will  do,  but  when  the  scene  shifts  to  Santa  Claus'  house 
some  changes  should  be  made  in  the  furniture,  etc.,  and,  if  possible,  touches  given  suggestive  of  its 
owner. 
(9) 


IN  SANTA-  CLA  US-LAND. 


253 


SCENE  I. 

Curtain  rising  reveals  Mrs.  Trent  rocking  a  cradle 
with  her  foot,  and  engaged  with  any  light  needle 
work. 

Mrs.  Trent  (singing.) 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep, 
Gone  the  sun  to  other  skies, 
Thou  must  close  thy  tired  eyes, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 
O'er  the  land  of  Santa  Claus 
Night  her  sable  curtain  draws, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 
Eut,  whate'er  the  skies  may  be, 
Baby  rests  from  danger  free, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 
]STow  the  waxen  eyelids  close, 
Held  at  last  in  sweet  repose, 
Lies  the  tender,  helpless  form, 
Sheltered  safe  from  harm  or  storm, 

Yes,  the  baby  sleeps. 

This  "cradle  song"  may  be  sung  to  the  familiar 
tune  known  usually  as  "  Put  Me  in  My  Little  Bed." 
Omit  the  first  "  Sleep,baby,  sleep,"  if  preferred,  and 
sing  the  others  softly  in  four  descending  notes. 

{Rises  and  comes  forward.)  I  cannot 
imagine  what  keeps  Trent  so  late.  But, 
then,  this  is  a  busy  time  of  the  year. 
The  dear  children  little  know  what  Christ- 
mas means  to  us.  It  means  hard  work  for 
every  dweller  in  Santa-Claus-land.  Ah  !  I 
hear  voices  and  footsteps.  Perhaps  my 
husband  brings  a  guest.  That  is  his  great- 
est fault — he  will  bring  home  visitors  with- 
out giving  me  warning.  Yes,  here  they 
come,  {Enter  Trent  and  Dr.  Snufnuff. 
Trent  introduces  the  Doctor  to  his  wife. 
Both  acknowledge  introduction  in  usual 
manner?) 

Dr.  Snufnuff. — I  am,  as  you  are  doubt- 
less aware,  Mrs.  Trent,  a  stranger  in  Santa- 
Claus-land,  and  am  overcome  with  delight 
and  amazement  at  the  many  wonderful 
things  shown  me  by  your  courteous  husband. 


Trent. — But,  Minnie,  we  are  famishing. 
Is  tea  nearly  ready  ? 

Mrs.  Trent. — With  your  permission  I 
will  be  excused  and  attend  to  it.  {Exit 
Mrs.  Trent.) 

Trent  (following  on  tip-toe.) — I  must  see 
that  the  door  is  closed.  {Returning.)  Yes, 
all  is  safe.  We  want  no  eavesdropping. 
Now,  this  is  what  I  want  of  you,  Doctor. 
Old  Santa,  as  you  well  know  has  had  the 
full  control  of  this  Christmas  business  for 
many  hundred  years  without  giving  a  mo- 
ment's place  to  any  one  else.  I  have  been 
with  him  long  and  have  learned  all  his 
tricks  and  charms.  The  words  to  be  said 
when  he  drops  his  gifts  into  his  magic  box, 
causing  them  to  dwindle  away  in  size,  the 
words  that  reduce  him  to  a  pigmy  so  tiny 
that  he  can  enter  the  narrowest  chimney, 
the  charm  by  which  his  reindeer  can  travel 
whole  leagues  in  a  minute,  and  also  the 
magic  words  by  which  he  passes  unharmed 
over  the  network  of  wires  in  large  cities, 
are  all  familiar  to  me.  Moreover,  I  have 
supervised  in  one  way  or  another  the  mak- 
ing of  all  the  gifts,  and  now  why  shouldn't 
1  distribute  them  this  year  instead  of  old 
Santa  himself  % 

Doctor  Snufnuff. — Why  not,  indeed  ?  I 
should  think  the  old  fellow  would  be  glad 
to  rest. 

Trent. — Not  he.  He  loves  not  only  the 
work  but  its  honors  as  well.  Once  I  bare- 
ly hinted  the  matter  to  him,  and  he  flew 
into  a  terrible  rage  and  wouldn't  speak  to 
me  for  a  week.  So,  you  see  (  goes  close  to  the 
Doctor \  and  laying  his  hand  upon  his  arm, 
speaks  low,)  what  I  cannot  accomplish  by 
fair  means  I  must  by  foul. 

Doctor  Snufnuff,  {starting  from  him). — 
You  don't  mean  to  kill  the  old  fellow  ? 

Trent  {shocked).— Kill  him?    No,  in- 


254 


IN  SANTA-  CLA  US-LAND. 


deed  ;  I  wouldn't  if  I  could,  and  I  couldn't 
if  I  would ;  he  is  immortal.  Neither  edge 
of  steel  nor  force  of  ball  can  harm  him.  I 
simply  want  to  use  a  little  stratagem  and 
want  your  connivance. 

Doctor  Snufnuff  {walking  away  and 
shaking  his  head  vigorously).  —  No,  sir ; 
no,  sir.  I  put  the  whole  thing  from  me. 
Do  you  suppose  I  would  stoop  to  deed  so 
dark  while  I  am  a  guest  of  the  jolly  old 
Saint  ?    Sir,  you  mistake  me. 

Trent  {going  up  to  him  again). — Come, 
come ;  we  don't  want  any  tragedy.  I  am 
not  going  to  harm  old  Santa.  Let  me  ex- 
plain. You  have  your  medicines  there. 
{Pointing  to  medicine  case.) 

Doctor  Snufnuff —Yes. 

Trent. — And,  of  course,  you  possess 
some  pills,  powders,  or  potions  that  will 
produce  a  heavy  sleep  ? 

Doctor  Snuf  nuff. — Ah  !  I  see  your  plan. 
While  the  Saint  sleeps  you  will  steal  his 
vocation?  But  even  this  I  am  averse  to 
engaging  in.    Suppose  we  are  discovered  ? 

Trent. — That  is  impossible,  since  we  are 
both  anxious  for  secrecy.  But,  come,  what 
is  your  price  ?  We  have  no  money  in 
Santa-Claus-land,  but  we  have  silver,  gold, 
diamonds. 

Doctor  Snufnuff  {walking  away  indig- 
nantly).—  Young  man,,  I  am  not  to  be 
bought — I  will  not  become  a  partner  in 
your  treachery. 

Trent.— Oh. !  well,  then  I  must  give  up 
visiting  the  world  again  until  my  term  is 
out. 

Doctor  Snufnuff. — Your  term  ? 

Trent. — Yes.  You  must  know  that  every 
one  who  comes  to  Santa-Claus-land,  whether 
from  choice,  as  I  did,  or  by  accident,  as  you 
did,  is  really  a  prisoner — 

Doctor  Snufnuff  {starting). — Ah  ! 


Trent. — And  cannot  escape  until  a  cer- 
tain fairy  has  given  him  leave — 

Doctor  Snufnuff  {eagerly). — Her  name  ? 

Trent. — To  go.  When  I  came,  however, 
I  -agreed  to  stay  a  certain  number  of  years> 
therefore  even  the  fairy  cannot  release  me, 
and,  as  I  felt  a  little  homesick,  I  thought 
I  would  like  to  see  the  gay  world  once 
more,  but  since  you  decline  to  help  me — 

Doctor  Snufnuff. — But  the  name  of  this 
fairy  you  neglected  to  mention.  Come,  I 
have  money  {taking  out  a  full  purse  and 
opening  it).  How  much  do  you  want  to 
tell  me  who  and  where  she  is? 

Trent  {imitating  the  Doctor's  former 
manner). — Old  man,  I  am  not  to  be  bought. 

Doctor  Snufnuff  {aside). — I  am  a  first- 
class  idiot.  I  lost  a  chance  to  win  a  potful 
of  gold.  {To  Trent:)  That  was  all  rho- 
domontade.  Let  us  understand  each  other, 
You  want  an  opiate;  I  want  to  escape  from 
this  place,  for,  like  all  human  beings,  the 
spot  where  I  am  forced  to  stay  immediately 
becomes  intolerable  to  me. 

{Enter  Mrs.  Trent.) 
Mrs.   Trent.  —  Gentlemen,  your  tea  is 
served. 

{Exeunt,  Mrs.  Trent  leading,  Doctor 
Snufnuff  and  Trent  following  arm-in-arm 
and  whispering  together.) 

(Curtain.  ) 

SCENE  II.— The  Same. 

{Before  the  curtain  rises  the  loud  cries 
of  a  baby  are  heard.  Curtain  rising,  shows 
Mrs.  Trent  taking  baby  from  the  cradle. 
A  large  doll  dressed  like  an  inf  ant  is  tised.) 

Mrs.  Trent  {in  a  low,  coaxing  tone). — 
Poor  little  sing,  did  he  sink  his  mamma 
had  dawn  and  left  him?  {Sits  in  rocker 
I  and  rocks,  gently  patting  and  soothing  the 


■2  35 


angels'  song. 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
DIVERSITY  OF  ILUHQB 


IN  SANTA-  CLA  US-LAND. 


257 


baby  while  talking  to  it.)  Well,  so  she 
hadn't,  but  mamma  was  so  busy  and  papa's 
dawn  off  wiz  the  naughty  old  Doctor  wiz  a 
funny  name,  and  dess  left  baby  all  lonie- 
lonie.  There,  there,  baby  s'ant  be  'bused 
any  more,  so  he  s'ant.  {Sings,  "Bye,  baby, 
bye"  over  and  over.) 

{Enter  Clip,  stealthily,  looking  cautiously 
about.) 

Mrs.  Trent. — Well,  my  little  man,  who 
may  you  be  ?  You  seem  to  be  looking  for 
some  one. 

Clip. — O  ma'am  !  I'm  only  Clip,  Doctor 
SnufnufFs  errand-boy. 

Mrs.  Trent. — So  that  is  who  you  are. 
But  what  is  the  matter  ?  Didn't  Jane  give 
you  supper  enough  ? 

{Clip  excitedly  staring  and  looking 
about). — Oh  !  yes,  ma'am  ;  yes,  ma'am. 
But  is  there  any  one  here  ? 

Mrs.  Trent. — Why,  no,  you  funny  boy — 
nobody  but  the  baby  and  myself.  Of  what 
are  you  afraid  ? 

Clip. — O  ma'am  !  something  awful's  go- 
ing to  happen.  You  won't  tell  on  me,  will 
you  ? 

Mrs.  Trent. — Something  awful  %  What 
do  you  mean  ? 

Clip. — But  you  won't  tell  \ 

Mrs.  Trent. — No,  no  ;  there  baby,  hush 
dear.  {Sings  softly,  "Bye,  baby,  bye," 
during  all  of  Clip's  part.) 

Clip. — O  ma'am !  my  master — you  know 
him? 

Mrs.  Trent. — Yes,  of  course,  our  guest, 
Doctor  Snufnuff. 

Clip. — And — and  —  and  your  husband, 
ma'am — 

Mrs.  Trent  {leaning  forward  eagerly). — 
Is  anything  the  matter  with  my  husband  ? 

Clip. — No,  ma'am,  I  guess  not,  but  he 
and  my  master  are  going  to  do  something 


to  harm  Santa  Glaus,  and  I  thought  maybe 
you  could  stop  it  if  you  knew  about  it.  I 
like  old  Santa  Claus  better  than  ever,  now 
that  I  have  seen  him.  What  would  we  boys 
do  without  him?  I  don't  know  just  what  they 
are  going  to  do,  'cause  I  couldn't  hear  it  all. 
O  ma'am !  {falling  on  his  knees)  don't  let 
dear,  dear  old  Santa  Claus  be  hurt.  If  he 
should  die  what  would  become  of  the 
world  ? 

Mrs.  Trent. — Never  fear,  Clip.  He  can 
not  die,  no  matter  what  they  may  do  to 
him.  But  I  will  learn  what  their  plot  is, 
if  I  can,  and  perhaps  I  can  prevent  its 
success. 

Clip. — Oh !  thank  you,  ma'am.  Now  I 
must  go  before  my  master  misses  me. 
{Exit  Clip,  running.) 

Mrs.  Trent. — I  am  glad  the  baby  is  asleep 
again.  {Bises  and  lays  it  in  the  cradle, 
softly  singing,  "Bye,  baby,  bye"  as  she  lays 
it  down,  then  walks  away  from  the  cradle 
and  claps  her  hands  three  times  softly.) 

{Enter  Ona.) 

Ona  bowing  low. — Sweet  lady,  what  is 
your  will  ? 

Mrs.  Trent. — O  dear  Ona !  do  you  know 
there  is  harm  threatening  Santa  Claus? 
Can  you  not  prevent  it  ? 

{Ona  shades  her  eyes  with  her  hand 
and  looks  away.  Mrs.  Trent  returns  to 
the  cradle  and  rocks  it  gently  while  watch- 
ing  Ona',  both  continue  thus  for  a  minute?) 

Ona  {lowering  her  hand  and  turning 
toward  Mrs.  Trent). — Yes ;  it's  a  well-laid 
scheme,  but  you,  Mrs.  Trent,  shall  foil  it. 

Mrs.  Trent  {leaving  the  cradle  and  com- 
ing forward). — I,  Ona  ?    What  can  I  do  ? 

Ona. — Everything.    First  you  must  go 
over  to  Santa  Claus'  house,  where  your ' 
husband  now  is. 

Mrs.  Trent. — I  cannot  leave  the  baby. 


258 


IN  SANTA-  GLA  US-LAND. 


Ona. — I  will  attend  to  the  baby.  And 
now  hasten.  I  will  see  that  you  have  a  rea- 
son for  calling  your  husband  out  of  the 
house.  The  rest  must  depend  on  your  wom- 
an's wit,  for  you  must  change  the  pipes. 

Mrs.  Trent. — Change  the  pipes  ? 

Ona. — Yes.  Ask  no  questions,  but  obey 
me,  and  remember  this  is  your  mission — to 
change  the  pipes.  (Exit  Mrs.  Trent.)  Trent 
has  grown  discontented  lately  and  some- 
thing must  be  done  to  show  him  his  folly 
and  wickedness.  How  strange  he  cannot 
see  that  there  are  worse  places  to  live  in 
than  Santa-Claus-land.  Since  "  blessings 
brighten  as  they  take  their  flight,"  I  will 
deprive  him  of  his  wife  and  baby  for  a  few 
months.  (  Waves  her  wand  slowly  over  the 
cradle.) 

(Sings.) 

Come,  O  fairest  of  fairies ! 
Bear  on  your  pinions  bright 
This  burden  so  precious  and  light, 

Softly  bear,  touch  with  care. 

(Curtain  falls  here,  but  singing  continues.) 

Blow,  O  softest  breezes, 

Let  no  touch  of  pain, 
Aught  that  e'er  displeases, 

Reach  this  baby  brain. 

Let  him  sleep,  fairies  keep 

All  his  dreaming  free  from  stain. 

Softly  bear,  fairies,  where 
Tender  love  and  joy  remain. 

( This  song  of  Ona>s  in  calling  to  the 
fairies  should  be  given  in  a  slow,  tender 
chant.  If  possible,  let  it  be  in  a  minor  hey, 
which  will  add  to  the  effect  greatly,  although 
of  course,  any  other  key  will  answer.) 


SCENE  III. 

Room  in  Santa  Claus'  house.  Curtain  rising 
showing  Santa  Claus  seated  in  an  easy  chair,  a 
small  stand  at  his  right  hand.  A  chair  and 
small  stand  several  feet  at  the  right  and  some- 
what behind  Santa  are  reserved  for  Trent,  who 
is  now  standing  in  front  of  Santa  on  the  right. 
Dr.  Snufnuff  also  stands  before  Santa  on  the 
left. 

Santa  Claus. — Now  that  everything  is 
ready,  Trent,  the  sleigh  packed  and  the 
reindeer  hitched,  I  believe  we  will  take  our 
"  good-luck  "  smoke.  Fill  a  pipe  for  all  of 
us.    We  will  have  the  good  Doctor  join  us. 

Trent. — Your  pipe  is  filled  and  lies  there 
beside  you,  good  Santa.  Mine  is  also  ready, 
but  our  learned  friend,  the  Doctor,  does  not 
smoke. 

Santa  Claus. — Not  smoke  !  "Why,  how 
does  tnat  happen  ?  ( Takes  up  his  pipe  and 
presses  the  contents  with  his  fingers.  Dried 
mullen-leaves  or  other  weeds  should  be  used.) 

Doctor  Snufnuff. — Science  teaches  me, 
good  Santa,  that  nicotine  is  poisonous. 

Santa  Claus  (laying  down  the  pipe.) — 
Nicotine  ?  What  has  that  to  do  with  our 
tobacco,  Trent  ? 

Trent  (shaking  his  fist  aside  at  the  Doc- 
tor.)— Oh !  it's  some  new-fangled  thing  they 
claim  exists  in  tobacco.  But  you  and  I  have 
never  seen  it  in  our  pipes,  have  we  ? 

Santa  Claus. — No ;  not  a  bit  of  it.  Well, 
I  cannot  keep  track  of  all  the  modern  in- 
ventions. If  I  live  another  fourteen  hun- 
dred years  I  believe  I  shall  begin  to  think 
I  am  an  old  man.  (Enter  Mrs.  Trent,  a 
light  shawl  thrown  about  her  head  and 
shoulders.  She  breathes  as  if  exhausted 
from  running.)  Why,  Mrs.  Trent,  what 
is  the  matter  ? 

Mrs.  Trent  (throwing  off  the  shawl.) — 
Good-evening,  gentlemen.  I  thought  I 
should  find  you  here.    (To  Trent.)  One 


IJST  SANTA-  CLA  US-LAND. 


of  the  reindeer  is  loose.  I  met  some  men 
hunting  for  you.  (Aside.)  I  may  thank 
Ona  for  that  accident.  (Trent  catches  up 
his  cap  and  runs  out.) 

Santa  Claus. — What  a  bother.  Just  as 
he  was  going  to  light  my  pipe,  too. 

Mrs.  Trent  (going  up  to  the  stand  and 
talcing  the  pipe.) — I  can  light  your  pipe. 

Doctor  Snufnuff.-l  thought,  good  Santa, 
that  your  deer  were  very  tame. 

Santa  Claus  (chuckling.) — Tame  enough 
when  you  know  the  charm,  and  wild  enough 
when  you  don't.  There  are  three  magic 
words  that  quiet  them  instantly. 

Doctor  Snufnuff. — Wonderful !  They 
are  hard  to  pronounce,  I  suppose  ? 

Santa  Claus. — Oh!  no,  very  simple. 
(Aside.)  Does  he  think  he  can  fool  old 
Santa  that  way,  and  learn  the  charm  ?  Not 
yet. 

(During  these  parts,  after  Mrs.  Trent 
says  she  can  light  the  pipe,  she  goes  toward 
the  other  stand,  where  are  some  matches. 
Her  hack  must  ~be  toward  the  others.  While 
talcing  a  match  and  lighting  it  with  one 
hand  she  adroitly  changes  the  pipes  with 
the  other,  then  turns  about  and  comes 
toward  Santa  Claus,  holding  the  lighted 
match  close  over  the  howl  of  the  pipe.  She 
comes  near  him  just  as  he  finishes  his 
("aside^) 

Why,  bless  your  beautiful  eyes,  Mrs. 
Trent,  you  can  never  light  a  pipe  in  that 
way.  You  must  take  the  stem  in  your 
mouth  and  draw  on  it. 

Mrs.  Trent. — How  stupid  I  am  !  But  1 
hear  my  husband's  step.  (Lays  down  the 
pipe.)    I  will  leave  the  task  to  him. 

(Enter  Trent.) 
(Aside.)    I  know  not  what  I  have  done. 
I  can  only  trust  in  Ona.    (To  Trent:)  Is 
all  well  again,  my  husband  ? 


259 


Trent. — Yes,  thanks  to  your  prompt  sum- 
mons,  no  harm  was  done. 

Mrs.  Trent. — Then,  good  Santa  and  Doc- 
tor Snufnuff,  good-night.  (Exit  Mrs. 
Trent.)  » 

Trent  (aside.) — She  might  as  well  have 
said  good-night  to  me  also. 

Santa  Claus. — So,  now,  if  everything  is 
all  ready  again,  Trent,  we  will  have  our 
smoke.    It  is  time  I  was  on  my  way. 

Trent. — Yes,  all  is  ready,  and  as  soon  as 
your  pipe  is  empty  you  can  be  off.  (Aside.) 
Off  to  slumber.  (Hands  him  a  7natch.) 
Will  you  light  your  pipe  yourself,  or  shall  B 

Santa  Claus. — No,  I'll  do  it  myself  this 
time.  (Lights  his  pipe  and  leans  back  in 
his  chair,  smoking  rapidly.  Trent  sits 
down  and  does  the  same.  Doctor  Snuf- 
nuff walks  up  and  down  the  floor  carefully 
watching  Santa  Claus,  but  not  looking  at 
all  at  Trent?) 

Doctor  Snufnuff  (speaking  sloioly.) — As 
you  were  saying  a  few  moments  ago,  good 
Santa  Claus,  I  should  think  you  would  be- 
gin to  feel  old.  And  yet,  as  it  is  impossi- 
ble for  you  to  suffer  as  ordinary  beings  do, 
of  course  the  infirmities  of  age  can  have  no 
power  over  you.  (Aside.)  I  do  believe 
the  old  fellow  is  proof  against  medicine, 
too.  (To  Santa  Claus:)  Were  all  the 
world  like  you,  how  soon  my  calling  would 
cease.  (Aside.)  Yes,  indeed,  that  powder 
might  as  well  have  been  given  to  a  stump. 
(To  Santa  Claus:)  And  for  us  who  thrive 
on  others'  weaknesses  a  person  like  your- 
self is  most  unprofitable.  (Aside.)  Think 
of  it !  All  that  drug  inhaled  and  not  the 
slightest  shadow  of  effect.  O  my  profes- 
sional soul !  How  it  is  grieved  over  so  sad 
a  waste  of  good  medicine.  A  dose  like 
that  and  no  results !  (Groans.) 

Santa  Claus. — There,  my  pipe  is  smok- 


i6o 


IN  SANTA-  CLA  US-LAND. 


ed  out,  and  I  must  away.  (Rises  and  turns 
toward  J  rent.  The  Doctor  also  turns 
that  way  at  the  same  time.  Trent  is  lean- 
ing back  in  h 's  easy  chair  sound  asleep.} 

Doctor  Snufnuff  (excitedly). — "What  mad 
mistake  is  this  ? 

Santa  Claus  (laughing). — Poor  Trent; 
he  has  gone  to  sleep  and  dropped  his  pipe. 
Well,  I  dare  say  I  have  worked  the  poor 
fellow  pretty  hard  h  tely.  But  now  he  can 
rest.    (Exit  Santa  Claus.) 

Dr.  Snufnuff  (going  close  to  Trent  and 
scanning  him  closely.)  Yes,  it  is  the 
opiate.  That  careless  wife  must  have 
changed  the  pipes.  Well,  it  will  have 
passed  away  by  morning,  and  meanwhile, 
as  I  have  learned  the  Fairy's  name,  I  will — 

(Enter  Ona.) 

Ona  (sternly.) — So  here  thou  art,  thou 
worker  of  ill.  What  shall  be  done  to  thee  % 

Doctor  Snufnuff  (falling  on  his  knees.) 
— Spare  me,  good  Fairy,  spare  me. 

Ona  (to  Trent) — Awake  now  from  this 
spell  and  receive  thy  punishment.  (Slowly 
waves  her  wand  over  Trent,  who  awakens 
very  gradually.  His  going  to  sleep  should 
be  quicker,  although  at  first  he  should  make 
a  slight  effort  to  shake  off  the  drowsy  feel- 
ing. The  falling  asleep  and  awakening 
can  be  made  a  very  effective  part  if  well 
carried  out.  Not  until  he  is  fully  aioake 
does  Ona  continue  her  address  to  him.) 
Upon  thyself,  traitor,  has  the  ill  descended 
which  thou  didst  mean  for  Santa's  head . 

Trent  (falling  on  his  Jcnees  beside  the 
Doctor.) — Sweet  Fairy,  oh  pardon,  pardon. 

Ona. — Nay  ;  there  is  pardon  for  neither. 

(Enter  Santa  Claus.) 

Santa  Claus. — What  is  all  this  % 
Ona. — Good  Santa,  here  kneel  two  schem- 
ers.    Together  they  plotted  against  thee. 


A  powerful  drug  was  put  into  thy  pipe, 
but  the  pipes  were  adroitly  changed  and 
the  spell  fell  upon  the  chief  plotter.  I  have 
but  just  awakened  him,  that  the  two  schem- 
ers might  receive  their  doom  together. 
Thou  {turning  to  the  Doctor)  art  selfish 
and  grasping,  therefore  for  one  year  thou 
art  deprived  of  books,  instruments,  pills, 
powders  and  potions,  and  all  thy  skill  and 
knowledge.  (The  Doctor  buries  his  face 
in  his  hands  and  moans.)  Thou  (turning 
to  Trent)  art  discontented  and  complain- 
ing, therefore  for  one  year  thy  wife  and 
child  are  removed  from  thee.  (  Trent  drops 
his  chin  upon  his  breast.) 

Santa  Claus. — Stay  thy  hand,  sweet  Ona. 
Behold  these  trembling  culprits.  Temper 
thy  scorn  and  indignation  with  pity.  For- 
give them  and  let  them  go. 

Ona. — No,  dear  Santa  Claus,  these  are 
lessons  which  they  both  must  learn. 

Trent. — Give  me  back  my  wife  and  child, 
and  no  murmur  shall  ever  again  pass  my 
lips. 

Doctor  Snufnuff. — Restore  my  gifts  and 
treasures,  and  I  will  devote  my  life  to  my 
fellow  creatures. 

Santa  Claus. — Come,  come,  sweet  Ona. 
Hast  thou  forgotton  it  is  the  glad  Christmas 
tide,  the  time  for  forgiveness  and  love  %  Re- 
verse thy  sentence  that  I  may  depart  on 
my  mission  of  peace  and  joy,  leaving  peace 
and  joy  behind  me. 

Ona. — Since  it  is  thy  wish,  so  be  it. 
Rise.  (Touches  each  with  her  wand. 
These  lines,  which  may  be  sung  to  any  two- 
five  hymn  time,  are  now  softly  sung  behind 
the  scenes') 

Let  sweet  forgiveness   hold  her  happy 

sway, 

For  coming  now  is  Christmas  Day,  glad 
Christmas  Day ; 


MOTHER  GOOSE'S  PARTY. 


261 


From  those  we've  wronged  we'll  sweet  for- 
giveness ask, 

And  freely  give  it,  too.    O  happy  task  ! 

No  clouds  of  anger  shall  deface  our  joy, 

Let  love  her  wondrous  power  to-day  em- 
ploy ; 

Yes,  everywhere  let  sweet  forgiveness 
reign, 

Nor  make  the  Christ-child's  coming  all  in 
vain,. 

Yes,  let  forgiveness  hold  her  happy  sway 
For  coming  now  is  Christmas  Day,  glad 
Christmas  Day. 


{During  the  singing  of  these  verses  Ona 
waves  her  wand  toward  the  right  of  the  stage, 
when  enter  Mrs.  Trent  carrying  the  babe. 
Ona  then  waves  her  wand  towards  theleftj 
enter  Clip.  The  characters  then  arrange 
themselves  about  Santa  Claus  in  the  follow 
ing  manner:) 

Santa  Claus, 
Trent,  Doctor  Snufnuff. 

Mrs.  Trent,  Clip, 
Ona, 
(Tableau.) 
(Curtain. 


peed  for  gold  and  ° 
')een  the  ii 


i-OiS  everywhere, 

•o;;"Vi,e.so„g;oT,r;ybhca"d"00--" 


)SE'S  PARTY. 


:ion  would 


nst  not 


come.  The 


Jiiainly 


one 


Jack  and  Gill- 
Tom  Tucker. 
Brown  Betty. 


Pure  and   true   h^v  t 

^en  he  appeared     it  TS   beC°mi'lff  formaI 

was  offered  ] are-el     1        mise  of  forgiveness  isetl  iQ  old-fashioned  dress,  breeches,  looped  skirts 


uuurwv/i°yJs  were  wearing  for  th^0^-  sin"sic,c  Detter  ^e  taken  by  an  older  child  than  the  others, 
and  wear  a  dress  of  the  itiau  JLl^^y- 


"  bi  him  Goose  alone  upon  the  stage. 


Mother  Goose. — 
Well,  well !    It  is  my  birthday  once  again, 
And  I  the  good  old  custom  must  retain 
Of  calling  all  my  little  folks,  to  come 
And  have  a  party  in  their  mother's  home. 
But  once  a  year  they  answer  to  my  call, 
For  they  are  scattered  widely,  one  and  all ; 
In  every  nursery  they  find  a  corner, 
Miss  Moppet,  Jack  and  Gill,  and  Jacky 
Horner, 

My  cousin,  the  old  woman  in  a  shoe, 
The  little  piper's  son,  and  his  pig,  too. 

Hark  !    Some  one  comes  !    I  will  sit  here 
in  state, 

While  all  my  little  guests  shall  on  me  wait. 


(Enter  Jack  Horner,  with  a  big  pie.  A  very 
small  boy  and  a  very  big  pie.) 

Jack  Horner. — Good  day,  dear  grandma. 

Mother  Goose. — How  dy'e  do,  my  dear  I 

Jack  Horner. — See  what  a  splendid  pie 
I  have  got  here  ! 

Mother  Goose. — 
Oh,  Jacky,  Jacky  !    What  is  that  I  spy  ? 
I'm  sure  I  see  a  hole  in  your  big  pie  ; 
I  am  afraid  your  naughty  little  thumbs 
Have  been  at  work  again  to  find  the  plums. 

Jack  Horner.  —  Only  just  one,  dear 
grandma  !  In  this  pie  I'll  touch  no  more. 
So  say  how  good  am  I. 

Mother  Goose. — I'll  trust  you  this  time. 


z6o 


IJST  SANTA-  CLA  US-LAND. 


ed  out,  and  I  must  away,  (fiises  and  turns 
toward  'Irent.  The  Doctor  also  turns 
that  way  at  the  same  time.  Trent  is  lean- 
ing back  in  h 's  easy  chair  sound  asleep.) 

Doctor  Smifnnff  (excitedly). — "What  mad 
mistake  is  this  ? 

Santa  Claus  {laughing). — Poor  Trent; 
he  has  gone  to  sleep  and  dropped  his  pipe. 
Well,  I  dare  say  I  have  worked  the  poor 
fellow  pretty  hard  lately.  But  now  he  can 
rest.    {Exit  Santa  Claus.) 

Dr.  Snufnuff  (going  close  to  Trent  and 
scanning  him  closely.)  Yes,  it  is  the 
opiate.  That  careless  wife  must  have 
changed  the  pipes.  Well,  it  will  have 
passed  away  by  morning,  and  meanwhile, 
as  I  have  learned  the  Fairv's  narr>~  T  This 


Ona  (SI  *fn°tate*     °  W  Those  ^cot  jes«s 

there  are^n  c0untry;         to  .^  oj  onS, 


Congr 


worker  of  i  in  our 


own 


pec\a\ly"c4u  xnchans,  *J°^ore 
-  others^  home 

all  ^e  can 


many 


ve 


—Spare  me  ^T""  "Tand  «e 


ndard 


A  powerful  drug  was  put  into  thy  pipe, 
but  the  pipes  were  adroitly  changed  and 
the  spell  fell  upon  the  chief  plotter.  I  have 
but  just  awakened  him,  that  the  two  schem- 
ers might  receive  their  doom  together. 
Thou  (turning  to  the  Doctor)  art  selfish 
and  grasping,  therefore  for  one  year  thou 
art  deprived  of  books,  instruments,  pills, 
powders  and  potions,  and  all  thy  skill  and 
knowledge.  (The  Doctor  buries  his  face 
in  his  hands  and  moans.)  Thou  (turning 
to  Trent)  art  discontented  and  complain- 
ing, therefore  for  one  year  thy  wife  and 
child  are  removed  from  thee.  (  Trent  drops 
his  chin  upon  his  breast.) 

Santa  Claus. — Stay  thy  hand,  sweet  Ona. 
these  trembling  culprits.  Temper 
Vidignation  with  pity.  For- 
et  them  go. 

W  Santa  Claus,  these  are 
W  both  must  learn, 
ne  back  my  wife  and  child, 
Wall  ever  again  pass  my 


IS 

how 
And 


spell  an  dree  „f;o-f^fain 


of 
flag 


Za^es'herw, 


very  gradual  t^^^^fSi  ^ 
be  quicker,  alt/  We  ^  ™\,tuutd  make 

a  slight  effort  id~*2;vafce  off  the  drowsy  feel- 
mg.  The  falling  asleep  and  awakening 
can  be  made  a  very  effective  part  if  well 
carried  out.  Not  until  he  is  fully  aivake 
does  Ona  continue  her  address  to  him.) 
Upon  thyself,  traitor,  has  the  ill  descended 
which  thou  didst  mean  for  Santa's  head. 

Trent  (falling  on  his  Jcnees  beside  the 
Doctor.) — Sweet  Fairy,  oh  pardon,  pardon. 
Ona. — Nay  ;  there  is  pardon  for  neither. 

(Enter  Santa  Claus.) 

Santa  Claus. — What  is  all  this  ? 
Ona. — Good  Santa,  here  kneel  two  schem- 
ers.    Together  they  plotted  against  thee. 


flags 


u\s 


T. — Kestore  my  gifts  and 
.  _  will  devote  my  life  to  my 
ieiiow  creatures. 

Santa  Claus. — Come,  come,  sweet  Ona. 
Hast  thou  forgotton  it  is  the  glad  Christmas 
tide,  the  time  for  forgiveness  and  love  %  Re- 
verse thy  sentence  that  I  may  depart  on 
my  mission  of  peace  and  joy,  leaving  peace 
and  joy  behind  me. 

Ona. — Since  it  is  thy  wish,  so  be  it. 
Rise.     (Touches  each  with  her  wand. 
These  lines,  which  may  be  sung  to  any  two- 
five  hymn  time,  are  now  softly  sung  behind 
the  scenes:) 

Let  sweet  forgiveness   hold  her  happy 

sway, 

For  coming  now  is  Christmas  Day,  glad 
Christmas  Day ; 


MO  TITER  G  0  OSJE'S  PA  R  TY. 


261 


From  those  we've  wronged  we'll  sweet  for- 
giveness ask, 

And  freely  give  it,  too.    0  happy  task  ! 

No  clouds  of  anger  shall  deface  our  joy, 

Let  love  her  wondrous  power  to-day  em- 
ploy ; 

Yes,  everywhere  let  sweet  forgiveness 
reign, 

Nor  make  the  Christ-child's  coming  all  in 
vain,. 

Yes,  let  forgiveness  hold  her  happy  sway 
For  coming  now  is  Christmas  Day,  glad 
Christmas  Day. 


{During  the  sing in g  of  these  verses  Ona 
waves  her  wand  toward  the  right  of  the  stage, 
%vhen  enter  Mrs.  Trent  carrying  the  babe. 
Ona  then  waves  her  wand  towards  theleft; 
enter  Clip.  The  characters  then  arrange 
themselves  about  Santa  Clans  in  the  follow 
ing  manner:) 

Santa  Claus, 
Trent,  Doctor  Snufnuff. 

Mrs.  Trent,  Clip, 
Ona. 
(Tableau.) 
(Curtain. 


 »        &  4,.  


MOTHER  GOOSE'S  PARTY. 


Motheb  Goose.  Jack  and  Gill- 

Miss  Moppet.     Jw  Tom  Tucker. 

Jack  Horner.  Brown  Betty. 

The  children  should  be  very  small,  and  dressed  in  old-fashioned  dress,  breeches,  looped  skirts 
buckled  shoes,  cocked  hats.  Mother  Goose  had  better  be  taken  by  an  older  child  than  the  others, 
and  wear  a  dress  of  the  last  century.    Mother  Goose  alone  upon  the  stage. 


Mother  Goose. — 
Well,  well !    It  is  my  birthday  once  again, 
And  I  the  good  old  custom  must  retain 
Of  calling  all  my  little  folks,  to  come 
And  have  a  party  in  their  mother's  home. 
But  once  a  year  they  answer  to  my  call, 
For  they  are  scattered  widely,  one  and  all ; 
In  every  nursery  they  find  a  corner, 
Miss  Moppet,  Jack  and  Gill,  and  Jacky 
Horner, 

My  cousin,  the  old  woman  in  a  shoe, 
The  little  piper's  son,  and  his  pig,  too. 

Hark  !    Some  one  comes  !    I  will  sit  here 
in  state, 

While  all  my  little  guests  shall  on  me  wait. 


(Enter  Jack  Horner,  with  a  big  pie.  A  very 
small  boy  and  a  very  big  pie.) 

Jack  Horner. — Good  day,  dear  grandma. 

Mother  Goose. — How  dy'e  do,  my  dear  % 

Jack  Horner. — See  what  a  splendid  pie 
I  have  got  here ! 

Mother  Goose. — 
Oh,  Jacky,  Jacky !    What  is  that  I  spy  ? 
I'm  sure  I  see  a  hole  in  your  big  pie ; 
I  am  afraid  your  naughty  little  thumbs 
Have  been  at  work  again  to  find  the  plums. 

Jack  Horner.  —  Only  just  one,  dear 
grandma  !  In  this  pie  I'll  touch  no  more. 
So  say  how  good  am  I. 

Mother  Goose. — I'll  trust  you  this  time. 


262 


MO  TITER  GOOSE'S  PARTY. 


Sit  there  in  the  corner.  And  keep  your 
fingers  idle,  Jacky  Horner. 

{Jack  Homer  sits  in  a  corner,  with  the  pie 
"before  him.    Enter  Tommy  Tucker?) 

Tommy  Tucker. — Good  morning,  Mother 
Goose ! 

Mother  Goose. — 
So  you  are  here ! 

I  hope  your  voice  is  very  sweet  and  clear, 
To  sing  for  us  when  all  my  guests  appear, 
And  make  the  time  pass  quickly,  Tommy 
dear. 
Tommy  Tucker. — 
Oh,  dear  !  that's  just  the  way  where'er  I  go! 
I  never  dare  my  face  or  form  to  show, 
At  any  party,  feast,  or  even  supper, 
Because  the  first  request  is — sing,  Tom 
Tucker, 

And  always  I  must  do  without  a  knife, 
And  single  live,  for  want  of  a  fair  wife ! 

Mother  Goose. — 
There  !  there  !    You  always  want  to  scold 
and  fret, 

Although  the  very  best  of  fare  you  always 
get; 

Go  sit  beside  Jack  Horner,  and  don't  cry, 
And  mind,  you  keep  your  fingers  from  my 
pie. 

No  supper,  sir,  for  you,  unless  your  song 
Is  pretty,  nicely  sung,  and  not  too  long. 

(Tommy  Tucker  sits  beside  Jack  Horner, 
and  they  appear  to  talk.  Enter 
Miss  Moppet.) 
Miss  Moppet. — Good  day,  dear  Mother 
Goose ;  I've  come,  you  see, 
To  help  you  keep  your  birthday. 

Mother  Goose. — 
Eiddle  de  dee  1 

You're  always  glad  to  come  to  me,  my  dear, 
Because  you  know  there  are  no  spiders 
here ! 


But  you  are  welcome  !  I  have  curds  and 
whey, 

That  are  for  you,  dear,  later  in  the  day. 
Come,  now,  and  sit  upon  this  footstool  tine, 
And  when  the  others  come  we  all  will  dine. 

(Miss  Moppet  sits  upon  footstool.  Enter 
Jack  and  Gill,  carrying  a  pail  of  water.) 

Jack. — Goo'~  day,  dear  Mother  Goose, 
how  are  you,  ^ray  ? 

Gill. — We've  come  down  hill,  you  see  ; 
good  day,  good  day  ! 

Mother  Goose. — Good  day,  my  little 
dears  !    I  hope  you're  well. 

Gill. — Oh,  yes  !  JTis  quite  a  long  time 
since  we  fell; 

We've  learned  to  climb  a  hill  without  a 
fear, 

And  fetch  a  pail  of  water  sweet  and  clear, 
Jack. — Such  as  we  have  brought  you  for 

your  feast  to-day. 

Mother  Goose. — Thank   you,  my  little 

dears  ;  put  it  away, 

And  find  a  place  to  rest  you !  You  must  be 
Quite  tired  with  bringing  that  great  pail 
to  me. 

(Jack  and  Gill  sit  down,  of ter  putting  the 
pail  in  a  corner.    Enter  Brown 
Betty,  with  a  basket  of  eggs.) 

Brown  Betty.— 
Here  I  am,  grandma  !    And  my  dear  old 
hen, 

Who  lays  such  splendid  eggs  for  gentlemen, 
Has  sent  you  these  in  honor  of  your  feast ; 
There  are  a  dozen  and  a  half,  at  least. 

Mother  Goose. — Thank  you,  dear  Betty  ! 

Brown  Betty. — And  as  I  came  here, 
I  met  a  great  troop  of  your  friends  !  I  fear 
The  house  will  hardly  hold  all  those  I  saw. 

Mother  Goose. — Oh,  there  is  lots  of  room 
for  many  more ! 


THE  LSBRSHY 
OF  THE 
UKiVEBSITY  OF  ILLS! 


MOTHER  GOOSE'S  PARTY 


*5 


Jack  Horner  (coming  forward?)  Oh, 
tell  me,  Betty,  did  you  see  dog  Buff? 

Broion  Betty. — Yes,  he  was  coming  with 
a  box  of  snuff. 

Tommy  Tucker. — And  did  you  see  the 
old  man  in  the  moon  ? 

Brown  Betty. — Yes,  he  will  be  here,  too, 
I'm  sure,  quite  soon; 

He'd  lost  his  way  of  course,  but  Margery 
Daw 

Offered  to  guide  him. 

Mother  Goose. — She's  been  here  before. 

Jack. — There  was  a  friend  of  mine  was 
coming  too. 

Brown  Betty. — What's  that,  pray  ? 

Jack. — One,  two,  buckle  my  shoe  ! 

Brown  Betty. — He's  on  his  way ! 

Tom. — The  damsel  in  the  lane,  the  one, 
you  know,  who  never  could  speak  plain; 
will  she  be  here  ? 

Brown  Betty. — Oh,  yes,  indeed  !  she  hob- 
bles 

Beside  the  man  who  always  gobble,  gob- 
bles. 

Mother  Goose. — A  funny  pair. 

Miss  Moppet. — And  will  my  husband 
come  ? 

Mother  Goose. — 
That  monster  who's  no  bigger  than  my 
thumb  ? 

You  should  have  brought  him  in  your  pock- 
et, dear, 

And  then  you  would  have  been  quite  sure 
that  he'd  be  here. 

Brown  Betty.— Bat  I  am  sure  I  met  him 
in  the  town,  upon  the  horse  that  galloped 
up  and  down ! 

Jack.—  Will  Bobby  Shaftoe  come? 

Brown  Betty — He's  gone  to  sea, 
With  his  new  silver  buckles  on  his  knee ! 


Mother  Goose. — And  tell  me  if  our  good 
friend,  Doctor  Foster,  has  come  back  from 
his  yearly  trip  to  Gloster  ? 

Brown  Betty. — Oh,  he's  coming,  for  he's 
on  his  way ;  all  our  old  friends  will  come 
and  spend  the  day. 

Mother  Goose. — 
Then  you  who  came  so  early,  now  must 
share 

My  labors  for  the  feasting  to  prepare, 
For  all  these  guests  must  find  their  fare  is 
hearty, 

When  they  arrive  at  Mother  Goose's  party. 

Jack  Horner. — Give  us  your  orders  ! 
We  are  ready  all,  to  answer  Mother 
Goose's  beck  or  call.  So  to  the  table  first 
I'll  take  this  pie! 

(Goes  out  with  pie.) 

Tommy    Tucker. — I'll  go  and  lay  the 
cloth,  and  then  I'll  try 
Every  new  song  I  know,  till  I  find  one 
Will  help  to  give  the  party  all  good  fun ! 

(Goes  out.) 

Mother  Goose. — Miss  Moppet—- 

Miss  Moppet. — I  am  here ! 

Mother  Goose. — Suppose  you  find  some 
cream  and  make  the  curds  to  suit  your 
mind. 

Miss  Moppet. — Thank  you  !  I'll  make 
the  dish  without  delay.    (Goes  out.) 

Brown  Betty. — And  I  will  go  and  put 
these  eggs  away,  ready  for  custard,  pudding, 
pie  or  cake. 

Mother  Goose. — Be  sure  you  put  them 
where  they  will  not  break !  (Brown  Betty 
goes  out.) 

Jack.— Come,  Gill !  We'll  go  and  fill 
the  goblets  high,  that  none  of  grandma's 
guests  may  go  home  dry. 


266 


THE  UGLIEST  OF  SEVEN. 


Gill. — And  if  they  call  for  drink,  we  will 
not  fail  to  give  them  bumpers  of  good 
Adam's  ale. 

{Jack  and  Gill  carry  out  pail.) 

Mother  Goose. — 
And  I  must  go  to  overlook  the  rest, 
That  there  may  be  a  share  for  every  guest !) 


I  should  be  sorry,  even  if  the  least 
Did  not  fare  well  at  Mother  Goose's  feast. 
I'll  give  them  plenty  of  the  best  of  fare, 
So  for  another  year's  work  they  can  pre- 
pare ! 

Then  to  the  nurseries  they  all  must  run, 
Before  the  babies  miss  a  single  one ! 

{Goes  out) 


 +  A  tt*  4  ^3 

V 


THE  UGLIEST  OF  SEVEN.* 


CHARACTERS. 

Ernest  Hellwald,  heir  to  the  late  Countess  of  Falkenbrun. 
Jeremiah  Ambrose,  steward  of  the  late  Countess. 

Ernestine, 

Rosa, 

Elise, 

Gabrielle,  y     Daughters  of  Ambrose. 

Amelia, 

Dora, 

Adelaide.  j 
Madame  Moorpiltz,  "1 

Madame  Kunkel,  y    Formerly  friends  of  the  Countess. 

Madame  Mousetooth,  j 

Peasants. 

The  first  scene  is  a  room  in  a  hotel;  afterward,  it  is  in  the  vicinity  of  Castle  Falkenbrun,  or 
a  room  in  the  Castle  itself. 


COSTUMES. 

Ernest — Knee-breeches,  short  coat,  cape; — as  a  German  student. 
Ambrose. — Dressing-gown,  skull-cap,  slippers,  spectacles. 

Ambrose's  Daughters. — Velvet  bodices,  bright  skirts,  braided  hair,  light-colored  waists,  slippers. 
Madame  Moorpiltz. — Riding-habit,  with  large  hat,  whip,  gloves. 
Madame  Kunkel.- Rich  silk  dress,  shawl,  bonnet. 

Madame  Mousetooth.— Light  silk  dress,  much  trimmed  with  lace,  ribbon,  etc.,  bonnet  very  gay 
with  many  bows  and  feathers. 


Prom  one  hundred  choice  selections,  No.  2. 


THE  UGLIEST  OF  SEVEN. 


267 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I  — Ernest  alone,  sitting  at  table  covered 
with  documents,  writing  material,  etc. 

Ernest. — Alas  !  I  am  the  unhappiest  of 
men  !  The  sole  heir  of  my  dear  great-aunt 
Falkenbrun,  who  leaves  me  all  her  wealth — 
there  is  certainly  no  cause  for  unhappiness  in 
that  fact — but  why  need  she  put  in  that  one 
frightful  clause  which  spoils  it  all  ?  Here 
is  my  copy  of  the  will ;  let  me  read  over 
again  the  details  of  my  good  fortune — no, 
misfortune,  I  mean.  (Beads.)  "  Half  a 
million  dollars,  clear,  and  two  estates  on 
the  Elbe,  near  Dresden,  for  an  eternal  pos- 
session, to  my  nephew,  Ernest  Hellwald — " 
good  old  great-aunt!  She  loved  me  after 
all,  though  I  so  often  broke  her  windows 
and  slammed  her  doors  when  I  was  a  boy, 
and  only  went  to  see  her  at  Christmas, 
when  she  gave  me  cakes  and  money.  But 
where  is  that  fatal  paragraph  ?  Ah,  here  ; 
"  Paragraph  Seven  :  But  my  great-nephew 
shall  forfeit  the  whole  unless  he  marry  one 
of  the  seven  daughters  of  my  old  friend 
Ambrose,  the  one  he  chooses  for  his  wife 
to  be" —  this  is  too  much ! — "  tlie  ugliest  !  " 
But  here  is  Paragraph  Eight:  "  In  order 
that  there  may  be  no  misunderstanding  I 
name  the  noble  ladies,  Madame  Moorpiltz, 
Madame  Mousetooth,  and  Madame  Kunkel, 
as  a  committee  to  decide  which  is  the  ug- 
liest of  my  friend's  seven  daughters." 
Three  old  women  !  It  makes  me  think  of 
Paris  and  the  apple;  but  no,  Paris  never 
had  to  choose  from  seven,  nor  did  three  old 
witches  make  him  take  the  ugliest !  (Rises 
and  paces  the  floor.)  It  is  not  the  want  of 
beauty  that  appalls  me, — she  might  not  be 
so  bad  after  all  but  that  a  gilding  of  half  a 
million  would  make  her  tolerable, — but 
then  my  heart  is  no  longer  my  own;  I  have 
no  longer  any  love  to  give.    It  is  all  in  the 


keeping  of  that  dark-eyed  beauty  whom 
I  met  at  Naples,  on  the  last  day  of  the  Car- 
nival. Oh,  to  give  her  up,  and  marry  the 
ugliest  of  seven, — and  all,  doubtless,  frights! 
Never  !  Let  me  go  on  reading  this  hated 
will !  "Paragraph  Nine :  In  case  my  nephew 
does  not  comply  with  these  conditions,  the 
estate  shall  go  to  found  a,  hospital  for  idiots, 
of  which,  however,  he  shall  always  be  a 
welcome  inmate,  free  of  expense,  and  shall 
receive  from  the  hospital  fund  an  allow- 
ance of  thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents  per 
month."  Was  ever  kindness  mixed  with 
cruelty  with  such  diabolical  cunning  ?  I 
will  try  it,  however, — try  to  swallow  this 
gilded  pill,  and  if  it  be  too  much  for  me, 
then  1  may  think  once  more  of  my  first 
love  in  Naples,  whom  I  have  seen  but  once, 
for  one  short  moment  at  a  window  as  J 
passed  below  in  the  crowd  of  masqueraders 
in  the  Carnival,  but  whose  lovely  image 
can  never  be  erased  from  my  heart  by  the 
combined  ugliness  of  all  the  hated  seven  ! 

Scene  II. — Road-side;  Ernest  Hellwald  lying  on 
the  ground  with  a  wound  in  his  forehead;  be- 
side him  kneels  Ernestine;  peasants  stand 
around. 

Ernestine, — His  heart  beats  feebly, — he 
is  not  dead,  but  dreadfully  hurt.  Tell  me, 
how  did  it  happen  ? 

Peasant. — My  lady,  I  cannot  tell  you, 
but  as  I  came  from  the  vineyard,  we  found 
him  lying  here,  and  this  empty  purse  near 
by.  No  doubt  he  has  been  set  upon  by 
thieves,  and  left  for  dead. 

Ernestine. — See,  his  forehead  is  bleeding 
still  ! 

Peasant. — It  would  be  strange  if  it  didn't 
bleed,  with  that  great  hole  in  it.  If  you 
will  watch  here  with  him,  I'll  be  off  to  fetch 
a  surgeon  from  the  village;  and  you,  chil- 
dren, go  to  Master  Ambrose's  and  tell  him 


2  68 


THE  UGLIEST  OF  SEVEN. 


we  will  briDg  a  wounded  man  there  in  half 
an  hour,  and  to  be  ready  for  him.  Will 
that  do,  miss  ?  Your  father's  is  the  nearest 
place,  and  I  dare  not — 

Ernestine. — Yes,  yes,  good  Fritz, — but 
don't  be  long !  He  may  die  while  you  are 
talking  here.  Make  haste!  {Exit  Fritz 
and  other  peasants.)  Poor  fellow !  He 
looks  like  a  traveling  student,  yet  his  face 
is  strangely  familiar.  Ha  !  he  moves !  He 
is  opening  his  eyes!  What  a  wonderful 
resemblance ! 

Ernest  (rising  on  his  elbow  and  looking 
around).    Where  am  I  ? 

Ernestine. — Are  you  better  ? 
Ernest  {looking  at  her  fixedly  and  then 
falling  back).    It  is  she  ! 

Ernestine. — Don't  speak, — you  are  hurt ; 
you  have  been  attacked  by  thieves,  and 
wounded,  and  now  I  have  sent  for  help  to 
carry  you  to  my  father's  house. 

Ernest. — Thank  Heaven  for  a  most  for- 
tunate accident.  I  thank  my  seven  stars, — 
seven — (wildly)  oh,  wretched  number!  I 

see  them  now, — all  seven  of  them  !  

Ernestine  (aside). — Seven  stars  in  broad 
daylight !  Poor  fellow  !  it  has  affected  his 
reason.  (Aloud.)  Here,  let  me  bind  this 
handkerchief  around  your  forehead, — there, 
that  will  make  it  better. 

Ernest. — Oh,  thanks !  A  little  tighter — 
no,  a  little  looser, — still  more  loose.  There, 
I  think  I  can  rise  now;  let  me  try  to  stand. 
(Takes  her  hand  and  rises.)  There,  now, — 
with  your  aid,  I  think  I  can  go  on  to  Castle 
Falkenbrun, — oh,  wretched  place  ! 

Ernestine. — Is  there  anything  so  horri- 
ble in  the  name  of  Falkenbrun,  that  you 
should  speak  so  wildly  ? 

Ernest. — Oh,  the  seven  !  the  seven ! 
Ernestine  (aside).  —  A    strange  man  ! 


What  if  he  were  crazy  ?    But  no,  that  is 
impossible, — he  is  too  charming ! 

Ernest. — First,  kindest  of   maidens,  I 
must  ask  your  name. 

Ernestine. — It  is  Ernestine. 
Ernest. — And  mine  is  Ernest, — it  can't 
be  possible !    Fate  has  surely  meant  us  for 
each  other.    Since  I  saw  you  in  Naples,  I 
have  never  ceased  to  think  of  you. 

Ernestine  (aside.)-!  have  certainly  lately 
come  from  Naples,  but  surely  I  never  saw 
him  there.  His  poor  head  !  (Aloud.)  Come, 
sir,  and  let  us  hasten  to  the  castle. 
Ernest. — What  castle  ? 
Ernestine. — Why,  Falkenbrun,  of  course, 
— that  is  where  I  live !    Come,  it  grows  late. 
Ernest. — But  is  the  castle  yours  ? 
Ernestine. — Oh,  no;  it  belongs  to  a 
young  man  named  Hellwald,  who  is  wan- 
dering about  the  world  now, — a  lazy,  good- 
for-nothing  sort  of  fellow,  I  fear,  to  let 
such  a  fine  old  place  go  to  ruin  for  want  of 
care.    It  was  left  to  him  by  his  old  great- 
aunt,  and  we  are  hoping  that  he  will  soon 
come  back  and  bring  a  wife  and  make  the 
old  place  bright  and  merry  agara. 

Ernest. — Tell  me,  sweet  Ernestine,  has  the 
keeper  of  this  castle  any  daughters  ? 
Ernestine. — Yes,  indeed, — seven ! 
Ernest. — Seven  girls!    But  probably — 
perhaps  some  of  them  are  pretty,  and  some 
are  not.    Is  it  not  so  ? 

Ernestine  (laughing;  aside). — How  he 
interests  himself  in  the  young  ladies. 
(Aloud.)    Yes,  six  of  them  are  right  pretty, 

but  the  seventh  

Ernest  (anxiously). — The  seventh  ? 
Ernestine. — She  is  truly  frightful ! 
Ernest. — Is  she  cross-eyed  ? 
Ernestine  (laughing). — Why  not  % 
Ernest. — Oh,  do  go  on,  nice,  sweet,  pret- 
ty little  Ernestine ! 


THE  UGLIEST  OF  SEVEN. 


269 


Ernestine. — Well,  if  you  must  know,  / 
am  the  old  gentleman's  seventh  daughter! 

Ernest. —  You  the  seventh?  {Despair- 
ingly). You  the  seventh  f  { With  a  gleam 
of  hope).    And  are  you  truly  the  ugliest  ? 

Ernestine.  Modesty  is  becoming  to  a 
young  maiden ! 

Ernest  {beside  himself). — I  have  it !  She 
is  the  loveliest!  Oh,  I  am  the  most 
wretched  man  on  earth  ! 

Ernestine  {aside). — His  head  seems  to  be 
getting  light  again.  {Aloud).  Come,  you 
must  let  me  bring  you  home  with  me. 

Ernest. — To  your  sisters? 

Ernestine. — Yes,  you  shall  yourself  judge 
if  I  have  spoken  the  truth.  Til  tie  the 
handkerchief  over  your  eyes,  and  then  you 
shall  see  us  on  parade  before  you,  when  I 
cry,  u  One,  two,  three,"  and  you  tear  the 
bandage  off. 

Ernest. — And  be  blinded  by  the  dazzle  of 
so  much  beauty  ? 

Ernestine.— That  would  be  a  pity,  for 
such  handsome  eyes ! 

Ernest  {eagerly).  —  Have  I  handsome 
eyes? 

Ernestine  — Yain  creature  !  come !  {She 
leads  him  away). 

Scene  III.  —  Ambrose  alone  in  his  library,  in 
dressing-gown  and  slippe  s.    Enter  Rosa. 

Rosa. — Father,  the  poor  man  has  come 
again  to  see  about  the  gardener's  place.  He 
is  out  of  work,  and  has  eleven  children,  and 
his  wife  is  dead,  and  

Ambrose. — Kosa,  it  is  no  use !  When  he 
came  yesterday  I  told  him  I  could  not  em- 
ploy a  man  with  red  hair.  When  Nature 
has  set  such  a  mark  of  distrust  upon  a  man, 
what  are  we,  to  run  against  her  warning  ? 

"Of  red  hair 
Let  all  beware  !" 


He  would  bring  misfortune  into  the  house ! 
I  am  sorry,  but  I  cannot  think  of  it.  Why 
did  I  send  awaytthe  other  gardener  ? 

Rosa. — Because  he  had  a  cast  in  his  eye. 

Ambrose.— Yery  true!  You  know  my 
principle,  now  go  ! 

Rosa. — But,  father,  he  might  wear  a 
black  wig,  and  color  his  eyebrows. 

Ambrose. — Ah !  that's  quite  another 
thing, — I'll  take  him  if  he  wears  a  wig,  but 
it  must  be  very  black.  Tell  him  to  come 
to-morrow, — no,  that  will  be  Friday. 

"Who  on  Friday  bargains  makes 
All  his  former  luck  forsakes." 

Tell  him  to  come  on  Saturday.  Where  is 
my  snuff-box?  Don't  disturb  it.  {Takes 
it  from  Rosa. ) 

"  Who  the  prize  for  health  will  take, 
Three  times  will  his  snuff-box  shake  " 

( Shakes  it  three  times,  takes  snuff  and 
S7ieezes  violently). 

All  the  girls  {rushing  in). — Father! 
father ! 

Ambrose. — Not  all  at  once!  Only  six, 
however. — (Counts.)  Yes,  an  even  num- 
ber,— much  better  luck. 

Elise. — Father,  Ernestine  is  coming  with 
a  strange  man ! 

Ambrose. — I  knew  it.  Did  I  not  prophesy 
it  at  breakfast  time  ?  A  knife  fell  down 
and  struck  my  foot.  Where  is  the  stranger  ? 
Who  is  he? 

Gabrielle. — He  is  blind  ! 

Adelaide*. — At  least  he  has  a  bandage 
over  his  eyes. 

{Ernestine  enters,  leading  Ernest.) 
Ernestine. — Father,  here  is  a  gentleman 
who  has  met  with  thieves  on  the  river-bank, 
and  has  been  robbed  and  wounded.   I  have 
brought  him  home  with  me,  to  see  what 


27u 


THE  UGLIEST  OE  SEVEN. 


can  be  done  to  help  him.  {Lifts  the  band- 
age from  his  eyes.) 

Ernest  (starting  back). — Ah  ! 

Ambrose  (taking  his  hand  cordially). — I 
knew  it!  What  did  I  say  at  dinner? 
A  black  cat  jumped  out  at  me  when  I 
opened  my  study-door  this  morning, — a 
sure  sign  of  misfortune. 

"  A  black  cat  in  the  morning, 
Of  an  accident  gives  warning. " 

You  are  heartily  welcome,  sir.  These  are 
my  daughters, — you  know  Ernestine ;  Rosa, 
Elise,  Gabrielle,  Amelia,  Dora,  Adelaide. 
(Each  bows  as  she  is  named.) 

Ernest  (staring  at  them,  bewildered). — A 
real  galaxy  of  beauty !  Excuse  me  for  so 
rudely  penetrating  into  your  family  circle; 
circumstances  compel  this  informal  call. 
( Aside.)    But  Ernestine  is  the  loveliest ! 

Ernestine  (to  Ernest). — Now,  sir,  was  I 
not  right  ?    Am  I  not  the  ugliest  ? 

Ernest. — Ah,  would  that  you  were ! 

Ernestine  (anxiously). —  How  is  your 
head  feeling  now  ? 

Ambrose.—  I  know  a  remarkable  balsam 
which  will  cure  your  wound  immediately, 
but  you  must  apply  it  before  nine  o'clock, 
or  it  loses  its  healing  power.  Will  you  not 
join  us  at  our  evening  meal  ?  Come,  chil- 
dren, one  plate  more. 

All  the  girls. — Yes,  dear  father.  (They 
rush  out  and  return,  bringing  a  plate, 
knife,  fork,  etc.) 

Ernest. — What  a  lovely  family !  So  hand- 
some !    So  obedient ! 

Ambrose. — Yes,  if  only  there  were  not 
seven  of  them.    It  is  an  unlucky  number. 

Ernest. — Ah,  how  well  I  know  that ! 

Ambrose  (eagerly).  —  Do  you  believe, 
then,  in  evil  combinations  of  numbers? 

Ernest. — Most  fully ! 

Ambrose. — You  are  a  man  after  my  own 


heart !  And  what  do  you  think  about  mes- 
merism ? 

Ernest. — I — I  

Ambrose  (excitedly). — Exactly  as  I  do ! 
Yes,  my  soul  

All  the  girls  (who  have  been  arranging 
the  fable,  interrupting  him). — Father,  every- 
thing is  ready ! 

Ambrose. — Take  your  places,  my  chil- 
dren.  Ernestine,  lead  your  friend  to  a  seat. 

Rosa  (to  Adelaide). — A  right  nice-look- 
ing fellow. 

Adelaide. — Yes,  indeed. 

Elise. — Yery  polite  to  Tina. 

Gabrielle. — He  hardly  looked  at  me. 

Amelia. — There  are  too  many  of  us. 

Dora. — Perhaps  he  is  already  engaged. 

Ambrose. — Now  sit  down, — are  you  all 
here?  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six, 
seven,  eight,  nine, — yes.  Potatoes,  meat, 
rolls,  fresh  butter,  fruit, — a  frugal  meal, 
but  you  are  welcome. 

Ernest. — A  true  feast  of  the  gods !  In 
mythology  we  

All  the  girls. — Have  a  potato  ? 

Ernest. — You  are  too  kind, — a  little  water 
and  a  roll  are  all  I  wish.  (Ernestine  rises 
and  pours  water.)  I  have  often  heard  of 
the  hospitality  of  Castle  Falkenbrun,  and 
now  I  know  its  reputation  is  well  founded. 
I  traveled  for  several  months  with  the  heir, 
a  year  or  two  ago. 

Amelia. — Oh,  how  charming!  Do  tell 
us  about  him ! 

Rosa. — Yes, — what  is  he  like? 

Elise. — Good-looking  ? 

Adelaide.— Td\  ? 

Amelia. — Short  ? 

Dora. — Dark  ? 

Gabrielle — Or  fair,  perhaps  ? 

Adelaide — Is  he  pleasant  ? 

Amelia. — Good  natured  ? 


THE  UGLIEST  OF  SEVEN. 


Dora. — Musical  ? 

Gabrielle. — Benevolent  ? 

Ernest. — No,  he  is  little,  has  a  large  nose, 
his  eyes  are  a  pale  green,  he  hates  senti- 
ment, is  very  lazy,  and  does  not  care  much 
for  the  ladies. 

All  the  girls. — Oh,  what  a  horrid  man ! 

Ernest. — And  now,  ladies,  my  head  is 
feeling  so  badly,  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to 
excuse  me. 

Ambrose. — Ernestine,  give  your  friend  a 
candle.  Your  room,  sir,  is  the  first  one  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs.  Forgive  me  for  not 
escorting  you,  but  my  rheumatism  forbids 
much  walking. 

{The  girls  rise  and  stand  in  a  semi-circle, 
Ambrose  in  the  midst.  Ernestine  gives 
Ernest  a  lighted  candle.) 

Ernest. — Good  night,  ladies ! 

All  {one  after  another). — Good-night ! 

{Ernest  goes  out,  leaving  door  open.  All 
the  girls  except  Ernestine  go  out  at  an- 
other door  ;  she  and  her  father  remain- 
ing behind.  Ernest  reappears  at  the 
door.) 

Ernest. — My  candle  was  blown  out  by  the 
wind. 

{Ernestine  relights  it,  and  as  Ernest  takes 
it,  he  hisses  her  hand.  Ambrose,  in  the 
meantime,  has  gone  to  sleep  in  his  chair. 
Tableau) 

ACT  II. 

Scene  1. — A  garden  ;  Ernest  alone. 

Ernest. — I  could  not  sleep  any  longer, 
but  am  not  sure  yet  whether  I  am  awake 
or  dreaming.  What  an  angel  Ernestine  is ! 
What  a  good  old  father !  What  charming 
girls  her  sisters  are !  As  far  as  I  can  see, 
all  the  landscape  is  mine,  but  I  forfeit  it  all 


at  a  word  !  The  idiot  asylum,  thirty-seven 
and  a  half  cents  a  month,  or  give  up  all 
hopes  of  Ernestine.  Ah,  here  she  comes, — 
I  dare  not  see  her  now.  I  will  hide  behind 
these  bushes.  {Hides.) 

{Ernestine  enters,  carrying  a  watering  pot) 

Ernestine. — My  poor  flowers  are  all 
drooping.  I  must  sprinkle  them  before 
the  sun  is  too  hot.  Ah !  {Sees  Ernest's 
hat.)  He  is  hiding  here  to  give  me  a  sur- 
prise !  Now  wait !  {Shakes  the  watering 
pot  in  his  direction.)  Caught  in  the  act ! 
You  are  my  prisoner  ! 

Ernest  {springing  out.) — It  is  my  first 
fault, — be  merciful !  But  I  would  willingly 
be  your  prisoner  all  my  life  long  ! 

Ernestine. — Oh,  that's  too  long.  Will 
you  promise  to  do  better? 

Ernest. —  I  promise  !  But,  Ernestine, 
give  up  joking.  Can  yon  not  see  how  my 
heart  is  glowing — 

Ernestine  {sprinkling  him.) — Oh,  then  I 
must  cool  you  off !  How  have  you  slept  ? 
How  is  your  head  this  morning  ? 

Ernest. — Better,  but  let  my  stupid  head 
go ;  it  is  my  heart  that  is  wrong.  Ernestine, 
what  do  you  think  of  your  sister  Dora  \ 

Ernestine  {astonished.) — Of  Dora  ? 

Ernest. — Yes,  and  of  Rosa,  and  all  the 
rest  of  them  ?  They  are  all  pretty  girls,  are 
they  not? 

Ernestine. — They  are  to  me. 

Ernest. — All  prettier  than  you  ?  You 
are  the  ugliest  of  all  ?  Could  you  give  me 
that  declaration  in  writing,  with  youi  seal 
attached  ? 

Ernestine  {aside.) — Poor  fellow  !  Papa 
must  have  that  balsam  ready  by  this  time, 
and  I'll— 

Ernest. — Happy  father  of  seven  !  seven  ! 
seven ! 


272 


THE  UGLIEST  OE  SEVER. 


Ernestine. — Yes,  Rosa,  Elise,  Gabriel  le, 
Amelia,  Dora,  Adelaide,  and  Ernestine. 
But  if  the  number  seven  is  so  disagreeable 
to  you,  we  expect  three  more  ladies  to-day, 
— Madame  Moorpiltz,  Madame  Mousetooth, 
and  Madame  Kunkel.  I  must  go  now  to 
make  ready  for  them. 

Ernest. — So  soon  ?  My  judgment  day  is 
coming!  But  before  you  go,  answer  me  one 
question, — the  peace  and  happiness  of  my 
whole  life  depends  upon  your  answer, 
Ernestine.  Do  you  not  know  that  my  heart 
is  yours,  that  I  love  you  devotedly  ? 

Ernestine  {casting  down  her  eyes.)  You — 

Ernest. — Do  not  be  hasty.  I  love  you. 
From  the  moment  I  saw  you  standing  in 
the  balcony  at  Naples  I  adored  you,  and 
when  I  opened  my  eyes  yesterday,  after  be- 
ing wounded,  you  were  like  a  saving  angel 
bending  over  me.  Now  tell  me, — can  you 
not  love  me  a  little  ? 

Ernestine  {turning  her  head.) — I  like 
you  right  well  already. 

Ernest. — Oh,  this  is  even  more  than  I 
dared  to  hope  !  May  I  not  speak  to  your 
father  this  very  day  ? 

Ernestine. — I  shall  not  prevent. 

Ernest. — And  will  you  give  me  your 
lovely  hand  ? 

Ernestine  {holding  out  her  hand.) — Do 
you  mean — so  ? 

Ernest. — Ernestine  you  make  me  the 
happiest  of  men!    {Embraces  her.) 

Scene  II.— Room  in  Ambrose's  house.   Rosa  alone. 

Rosa. — What  can  all  this  mean, — this 
everlasting  talk  about  the  ugliest?  One 
can't  help  overhearing  a  little,  when  peo- 
ple will  talk  so  loud.  Its  plain  that  this 
stranger  has  the  bad  taste  to  prefer  ugliness 
to  beauty.  I  think  I'll  have  a  little  fun 
myself.  With  blackened  eyebrows  and  a 
scar  on  my  cheek, — a  red  paint  scar, — I 

(10) 


may  be  able  to  make  myself  hideous  enough 
to  please  even  him.  Who  knows  but  I 
may  rival  Tina  herself,  if  I'm  very,  very 
ugly  ;  I'll  try  it,  at  all  events.  {Exit.) 

{Enter  Madame  Kunkel  and  Elise.) 

Mme.  Kunkel. — The  first  thing  that  I 
request  young  woman,  is,  that  you  treat  my 
precious  Molly  with  the  most  delicate  con- . 
sideration. 

Elise. — Your  Molly  ?  Is  she  your  daugh- 
ter? 

Mme.  Kunkel. — No,  Molly  is  my  cat,  my 
dear,  true  pussy.  Any  injury  done  to  her 
is  done  to  me. 

Elise. — Yery  well,  Madame ;  she  shall 
have  her  own  room,  if  you  desire  it. 

Mme.  Kunkel. — With  a  sofa  in  it ; — she 
is  accustomed  to  a  sofa ;  and  three  times 
daily  she  is  brought  to  me.  And  here  is 
my  precious  Polly,  who  seldom  leaves  my 
side.  She,  too,  must  have  a  separate  room, 
and  be  fed  on  cream  toast.  Can  you  tell 
me  child,  why  the  master  of  this  place  has 
invited  me  here  ? 

Elise. — I  cannot  tell,  but  we  expect 
Madame  Moorpiltz  here  also. 

Mme.  Kunkel. — Moorpiltz !  That  rough, 
noisy  creature,  who  carries  on  her  late  hus- 
band's business  exactly  like  a  man,  and 
spends  all  her  time  in  riding  to  the  hunt 
and  leaping  fences  ? 

Elise. — We  expect  her,  and  also  Madame 
Mousetooth. 

Mme.  Kunkel. — Mousetooth  !  The  silly, 
sentimental  goose,  who,  in  her  fiftieth  year, 
still  wanders  about  in  the  moonlight,  and 
cries  over  a  fly  drowning  in  her  milk  pitch- 
er !    What  can  they  want  here  ? 

Elise. — I  don't  know.  There  they  come 
however. 

{Enter  Madame  Mousetooth  and  Gabrielle.) 


THE  UGLIEST  OF  SEVEN. 


Mine.  Kunkel.  —  {affectionately  )  Ah, 
you  are  heartily  welcome,  my  dearest  Mad- 
ame Monsetooth  !  "What  good  luck  brings 
you  here  ? 

M me.  Mousetooth. — Sweet,  dear  Madame 
Kunkel  !  What  a  delight  to  see  you  !  {To 
Gabrielle.)  Be  careful  of  my  toilet  box, 
and  my  lavender,  cologne,  and  millefieurs  ! 
Let  them  be  unpacked  in  the  most  gentle 
manner,  and  left  in  my  room. 

Gabrielle. — I  will  see  to  it  myself. 

Mme.  Mousetooth. — Thanks,  you  darling! 
And  my  portfolio,  put  it  away  most  care- 
fully, the  contents  are  so  delicate  ! 

Gabrielle. — I  will  do  so  right  away. 

Mme.  Mousetooth. — You  little  angel ! 
Give  me  a  kiss!  There,  now,  run  away, 
both  of  you.  {Exit  Elise  and  Gabrielle.) 
May  I  enquire  what  brings  you  here  just 
now,  my  dear  old  friend? 

Mme.  Kunkel  {aside.) — Jealous  old  thing! 
{Aloud.)  I  was  just  going  to  ask  you,  my 
dear  creature,  what  brought  you  f 

Mme.  Mousetooth. — But  are  we  all  the 
company,  or  do  they  expect  others  ? 

Mme.  Kunkel. — Madame  Moorpiltz  will 
be  here  soon. 

Mme,  Mousetooth. — Moorpiltz  !  That 
horrid  thing,  who  outrages  every  principle 
of  ladylike  behavior  and  gentleness!  But 
listen !    I  hear  steps  ! 

{Enter  Madame  Moorpiltz  and  Adelaide.) 

Mme.  Moorpiltz  {loudly.) — I  tell  you, 
girl,  if  my  brown  pony  can't  have  a  feed  of 
oats  without  any  mixture  of  bran,  let  him  be 
saddled  again  at  once,  and  I'll  be  off  in  a 
twinkling ! 

-   Adelaide. — I  will  tell  the  groom. 

Mme.  Moorpiltz. — That's  right!  And 
let  him  feed  my  two  setters,  and  loosen  the 
collar  on  the  brown  pointer.    I  want  to 


have  the  black  horse  clipped,  but  I'll  see  to 
that  myself. 

Adelaide. — I  will  leave  your  order  at 
once. 

Mme.  Moorpiltz  {patting  her  on  the 
head.) — That's  a  good  fellow  !  Now  go! — 
stay, — have  a  pinch  ?  {Offers  her  snuff box? 
which  Adelaide  refuses  as  she  goes  out.) 
Why,  who's  all  this  ?  How  dye  do,  old 
girls  ?    I  almost  overlooked  you  ! 

Mme,  Kunkel. — You  were  so  absorbed 
in  your  horses  and  hounds  that — 

Mme.  Mousetooth  {gushingly). — Oh,  but 
you  are  so  fresh — so  natural ! 

Mme.  Moorpiltz. — I  am  not  curious,  but 
I  should  like  to  know  why  we  are  here.  It 
certainly  can't  be  for  the  pleasure  ot  one 
another's  company.  {Enter  Ambrose?) 
Well,  old  boy ! 

Ambrose  {bows  profoundly  to  each  of  the 
ladies  in  turn) — Ladies,  you  behold  in  me; 
the  steward  of  the  late  lamented  Countess' 
Falkenbrun.  For  many  years  I  managed! 
her  estates,  and  she  honored  me  in  her  will 
by  leaving  them  still  in  my  charge  till  they 
should  be  given  into  the  hands  of  the  chosen 
heir.  By  the  instructions  left  with  her  will 
I  have  summoned  you,  her  three  oldest 
friends,  to  attend  to  a  matter  of  business 
for  her.  She  left  this  sealed  letter,  which 
you  are  requested  to  read  alone.  {Lays  let- 
ter on  table;  exit.) 

Mme.  Moorpiltz  {picking  up  letter) — 
Well,  as  I  am  the  youngest  and  have  the 
best  eyes,  I  will  read  this  mysterious  com- 
munication from  our  old  friend.  {The 
others  glare  at  her.  She  reads  aloud.) 
"  Dearest  friends :  I  call  upon  you  to  decide 
which  of  the  seven  daughters  of  my  friend 
and  steward  Ambrose  is  the  ugliest.  I  have 
no  reason  for  this  request,  but  ask  you  to 
settle  this  simple  point  and  to  announce  the 


274 


THE  UGLIEST  OF  SEVEN. 


decision  to  my  great-nephew  and  heir, 
Ernest  Hellwald.  For  this  service  I  leave 
to  each  of  you  as  a  souvenir  of  me,  a  thou- 
sand pounds.  Estella,  Countess  of  Falken- 
brun." 

All  three  ladies. — Noble  old  lady! 
Mme.  Kunkel. — How  generous  ! 
Mine.   Mousetooih.  —  How  charmingly 
original ! 

Mme.  Moorpiltz. — Well,  we  may  as  well 
call  the  girls  in,  and  put  them  through  their 
paces.  {Goes  to  the  door  and  calls.)  Hi ! 
Ambrose  I  Old  fellow,  where  are  you? 
Send  us  your  seven  daughters ! 

(The  girls  come  in,  and  are  ranged  in  a 
row.  They  stand  still  while  the  ladies 
examine  them  and  comment  upon  their 
appearance.  While  the  examination  goes 
on,  Ernest  appears  at  the  open  door  and 
anxiously  watches  the  group.  The  ladies 
delay  the  longest  over  Rosa,  who  has  dis- 
figured, herself  as  much  as  possible.  The 
three  then  resume  their  seats.) 

All  three  ladies. — Now  you  may  go  ! 

{The  girls  go  out  at  another  door.  Ernest 
unobserved,  listens  with  the  greatest  anx- 
iety.) 

Mme.  Moorpiltz. — Well,  what  do  you 
say  ?  In  my  mind  there  is  not  a  doubt 
about  it. 

Mme.  Mousetooth. — It's  also  clear  to  my 
impartial  mind. 

Mme.  Kunkel. — She  has  not  a  good 
shape. 

Mme.  Mousetooth. — Her  eyes  are  not 
bright. 

Mme.  Moorpiltz. — Her  eyebrows  are  like 
ox-yokes. 

Mme.  Kunkel. — And  that  great  scar  on 
her  cheek. 

Mme.  M&useteeth. — Such  sharp  elbows. 


Mme.  Moorpiltz. — Such  a  silly  expres- 
sion. 

Mme.  Mousetooth. — We  are  united  ! 

All  {Madame  Moorpiltz  holding  up  her 
hand  as  they  rise  and  say,  solemnly?)  The 
ugliest  is  Rosa,  the  loveliest  is  Ernestine  ! 

{Ernest  falls  back  in  despair.) 
ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — The  garden.  Ernest  and  Ernestine 
discovered. 

E?mestine  {sadly.) — Dear  Ernest,  since 
you  have  told  me  all  the  story  of  that  hate- 
ful will,  and  I  know  what  a  sorrowful  gift 
my  love  would  be  to  you,  I  cannot  consent 
to  such  a  sacrifice, — you  must  give  me  up  ! 

Ernest. — Never !  Rather  would  I  become 
your  father's  poorest  workman,  yes,  serve 
him  for  nothing,  with  the  hope  of  an  occa- 
sional word  from  you,  rather  than  do  with- 
out you,  now  that  you  have  iust  begun  to 
love  me ! 

Ernestine. — Not  so  lately  as  you  imagine, 
perhaps.  But  is  there  no  hope  ?  Did  you 
hear  the  decision  yourself? 

Ernest. — Yes,  alas  !  I  heard  it  only  too 
well.  A  plague  on  their  old  heads,  stuffed 
with  dogs  and  parrots  and  lavender-water. 
{Ernestine  starts.)  But  I  should  have  hated 
them  still  more  if  they  had  wronged  your 
beauty  by  any  other  decision. 

Ernestine  {springing  up.) — Ernest!  I 
have  an  idea  !  I  think  I  see  a  way  out  of 
all  this  trouble  !  Don't  ask  me  to  tell  you 
just  yet, — only  wait,  and  don't  be  surprised 
at  any  thing  strange  that  I  may  do.  You 
know  I  thought  that  you  were  crazy  when 
I  first  met  you ;  it's  my  turn  now  ! 

Scene  II.— A  room  in  the  house.  The  old  ladies 
sitting  in  a  row,  whispering  together;  all  tho 
girls  excepting  Ernestine  in  a  group  at  one  end 
of  the  room.    Enter  Ambrose  and  Ernest. 


No.  72. 


THE  CHUEL  KEEPER. 

BY  MRS.  M.  A.  KIDDER. 

A  happy  day  it  was  for  Dora  Brown  and  her 
classmates  when  they  went  to  Central  Park  and  spent 
six  hours  listening  to  the  music,  rambling  through 
the  shady  avenues,  and  looking  at  the  animals. 

The  next  Saturday  they  all  met  at  Doras  house 


2 


THE  CRUEL  KEEPER. 


to  have  a  little  tea-party,  as  the  summer  vacation 
was  over,  and  they  were  about  to  renew  their  school 
duties  once  more. 

Their  pleasant  young  teacher  was  invited,  and  a 
merry  time  they  had  of  it,  telling  stories,  guessing 
conundrums,  and  singing  school  songs  and  tempe- 
rance ballads,  until  good  Mrs.  Brown's  rosy  face 
was  framed  in  the  doorway,  and  her  cheerful  voice 
greeted  them  with  "Come  to  tea,  dears." 

Now,  no  brighter  picture  can  be  presented  than 
that  of  a  group  of  merry  school-girls,  happy  and 
hungry,  clustering  around  a  tea-table.  How  the 
slices  of  bread  and  butter  disappeared,  and  pre- 
serves, and  the  golden  sponge-cake,  and  the  glasses 
of  rich,  creamy  milk  ;  for  in  Mrs.  Brown's  family 
"  Come  to  tea  "  meant  (for  the  young  folks)  come 
to  milk. 

"  Now,  girls,"  said  Dora,  as  they  filed,  after  their 
repast,  into  the  play-room,  "  I'll  show  you  the  picture 
father  brought  me  home  last  night,  '  Rebecca  at  the 
Well."' 

"  Do,  do  !"  said  a  chorus  of  voices.  And  the  pic- 
ture was  brought  out  and  admired. 

"  There  are  camels  in  it,"  said  bright-eyed  Mat- 
tie  Smith. 

"  Ye?,"  said  Dora  ;  "  and  since  we  saw  the  camels 
at  Central  Park  the  other  day,  we  all  shall  take 
more  interest  in  them." 

"  'I  will  give  thee  water  to  drink,  and  draw  for 
thy  camels  also,'  was  what  Rebecca  told  Abraham's 
servant,"  little  May  Clark  said  bashfully. 

"  Pretty  near  right,"  answered  the  pleasant 
young  teacher;  "and  now  let  me  tell  you  how  a 


THE  CRUEL  KEEPER. 


3 


keeper  once  cruelly  treated  a  camel  that  he  loved 
dearly." 

"  How  could  he  treat  anything  cruelly  that  he 
loved  ? "  cried  the  girls  in  a  breath. 

*  Ah  !  he  had  been  drinking  strong  drink,  and 
going  into  the  stall  of  the  poor  creature  at  night, 
after  the  people  had  left  the  menagerie,  he  beat  him 
terribly  with  a  large  stick." 

"Oh!  oh  !  oli  !  "  sighed  the  tender-hearted  chil- 
dren.   "  What  did  he  do  it  for  ?  " 

"  Because  he  was  maddened,  as  I  say,  with  liquor, 
and  vented  his  fury  on  the  first  helpless  thing  that 
came  in  his  way.  If  he  had  had  a  little  girl  like  one 
of  you,  he  might  have  struck  her  blow  after  blow, 
as  he  did  the  poor  camel,  that  was  found  dead  in 
the  morning." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !    How  could  he  have  done  so  ?  " 

tC  They  must  have  been  hard  blows  to  have  killed 
so  strong  a  beast,"  said  Dora. 

"  It  was  not  the  blows  alone  that  killed  him.  His 
heart  was  broken,  so  they  said,  to  think  that  the 
keeper  he  loved,  and  who  also  loved  him  when 
sober,  should  have  tortured  him  so,"  continued  the 
teacher.  "  Camels  are  affectionate  as  well  as  pa- 
tient, and  they  are  said  to  shed  tears  when  abused." 

"Camels'  tears!  I  never  heard  anything  so 
strange  before,"  said  Dora,  drying  her  own  eyes  ; 
"  but  I  shall  never  see  a  keeper  of  wild  animals 
again  but  I  shall  pray  in  my  heart  that  he  may  be  a 
temperate  man." 


4 


THE  FIRE  THAT  OLD  NICK  BUILT. 


THE  HUE  THAT  OLD  NICK  BUILT. 

AN  IMITATION  OF  THE  "  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT." 

Intemperance. — This  is  the  fire  that  Old  Nick.built. 

Moderate  Drinking. — This  is  the  fuel  that  feeds 
the  fire  that  Old  Nick  built. 

Rumselling. — This  is  the  axe  that  cuts  the  wood 
that  feeds  the  fire  that  Old  Nick  built. 

Love  of  Money. — This  is  the  stone  that  grinds  the 
axe  that  cuts  the  wood  that  feeds  the  fire  that  Old 
Nick  built. 

P2iblic  Opinion. — This  is  the  sledge  with  its  face 
of  steel  that  batters  the  stone  that  grinds  the  axe 
that  cuts  the  wood  that  feeds  the  fire  that  Old  Nick 
built. 

A  Temperance  Meeting. — This  is  one  of  the  blows 
that  we  quietly  deal  to  fashion  the  sledge  with  its 
edge  of  steel  that  batters  the  stone  that  grinds  the 
axe  that  cuts  the  wood  that  feeds  the  fire  that  Old 
Nick  built. 

Temperance  Pledge. — This  is  the  smith  that  works 
with  a  will  to  give  force  to  the  blow  that  we  quiet- 
ly deal  to  fashion  the  sledge  with  its  face  of  steel 
that  batters  the  stone  that  grinds  the  axe  that  cuts 
the  wood  that  feeds  the  fire  that  Old  Nick  built. 

Eternal  Truth. — This  is  the  spirit  so  gentle  and 
still  that  nerves  the  smith  to  work  with  a  will  to 
give  force  to  the  blows  which  we  quietly  deal  to 
fashion  the  sledge  with  its  face  of  steel  that  batters 
the  stone  that  grinds  the  axe  that  cuts  the  wood 
that  feeds  the  fire  that  Old  Nick  built. 


Published  by  the  National  Temperance  Society  and  Publication 
House,  No.  58  Reade  Street,  New  York,  at  $2  per  thousand. 
Postage  24  cents  per  thousand. 


Had  We  Known. 


BY  LIZZIE  H.  UNDERWOOD. 

Had  we  known,  in  the  joy  and  beauty 

Of  days  that  can  come  no  more, 
Which  one  of  the  dear  little  children 

The  Shepherd  would  lead  before, 
"We  had  kissed  her  over  and  over 

With  kisses  on  cheek  and  brow, 
We  had  held  her  closer  and  closer 

To  hearts  that  are  breaking  now. 

Had  we  known  when  we  heard  our  darling  s 

Sweet  voice  from  her  little  bed, 
"  I  love  you  so  well,  dearest  mamma !" 

So  soon  she'd  sleep  with  the  dead, 
We  had  asked,  with  pleading  insistence, 

The  Father  to  spare  awhile, 
Till  he'd  teach  us  to  do  without  her 

Sweet  voice  and  her  loving  smile. 

Had  we  known  when  we  smoothed  the  tangle? 

Away  from  her  sunny  hair 
So  soon  we  would  weep  for  its  brightness, 

How  our  hands  had  lingered  there ! 
Had  we  known,  when  her  blue  eyes  sparkled 

With  love-light  dancing  at  play, 
So  soon  they'd  be  veiled  in  death's  slumber 

We  had  caught  their  ev'ry  ray. 

But  we  could  not  know  till  the  Father 

Chose  Judith  from  all  the  rest, 
And  she  looked  so  sweet  as  she  lay  there, 

With  dimpled  hands  on  her  breast, 
That  we  gave  her  back  to  the  angels 

With  tender  and  loving  touch, 


juuag  iriends  or  those  of  us  who  are  mic 
4  oung  people  that  we  gain  more  than  we  give  by  asso< 

th  old  people.    They  may  not  be  up  in  the  -stands 
TH'iciation,  but  they  are  rich  in  the  language  of  the 
sr  we  are  journeying.    They  have  gained  experience, 
Intern!  them  have  learned  in  that  way  more  than  any  yo 
Mode*  graduate  dreams  of.    Some  one  took  off  his  hat 

1  iWbeCaUSe  [t  WaS  ful1  of  *****  Possibilities.  But  an 
that  fee1  deserves  more  h«nor  because  he  is  like  a  hero  retun 
Love  the  battle-  The  thing  that  makes  me  most  enjoj 
axe  tha^istian  is  that  he  will  soon  see  the  King  in  his  bea 
Nick  bwe  is  nearest  the  throne,  and  should  have  a  reverence 
Publi.  to  that  we  give  the  King.— Myra  Goodwin  Plantz,  i 
of  steely  Herald. 

that  cut  .  

hmATe  Gathered  Gems. 

that  we      "Thou  lovest  Me?   I  know  it.    Doubt  not,  then ; 
edge  of  But,  loving  Me,  lean  hard." 

^ckhbue*must  answer  for  °ur  idle  words'  how  much  morc 
TemJ>Q  s^ences' — St-  Augustine. 

with  a  v\day  will  come  when  God  will  judge  over  again  all  t 
ly  deal  tthat  are  judged  amiss. — Bernard. 

thewboo(hOUld  haVG  aD  °Ur  communications  with  men  as  in 
EternL    of  God'  and  with  God  as  in  the  presence  of  me 
still  that 

give  forct  gospel  truth  is  meant  to  influence  character  and  < 
lashion  tfrhere  are  truths  which  only  ask  to  be  believed;  Chr: 
the  stone  niands  that  we  should  do  it.— Maclaren. 
that  teeds 

 Qe  stand  baek  as  if  their  sins  were  too  great  to  be 

Published  by  ^Heir  case  too  bad  tobe  cured.     Jesus  is  an  advo< 

House,  JSo.  5o  Keaac  street,  Mew  YorK,  ai  $2  per  thousau^.  - 
Postage  24  cents  per  thousand. 


THE  UGLIEST  OF  SEVEN. 


275 


Ambrose. — Ladies,  while  you  have  been 
in  consultation,  I  have  just  made  the  as- 
tonishing discovery  that  we  have  been  en- 
tertaining as  an  unknown  guest,  no  other 
than  our  dear  Countess  Falkenbrun's  great- 
nephew  and  heir.  It  gives  me  great  pleas- 
ure to  present  him  to  you.  {All  rise  and 
bow  profoundly.  The  girls  show  signs  of 
great  astonishment)  But  where  is  Ern- 
estine ?  It  is  unlucky  for  her  to  be  up-stairs 
when  all  the  rest  are  down.  {Goes  to  the 
door  and  calls.)    Ernestine  !  Ernestine  ! 

Ernestine  {rushing  in.) — Oh,  don't  be 
angry,  my  dear  old  ladies,  that  I  have  kept 
you  waiting  a  little  while,  but  something  so 
funny  has  just  happened  !  I  am  in  such  a 
hurry  to  tell  you;  it  was  too  ridiculous ! — 
but  do  have  patience !  Eome  was  not 
built  in  a  day !  The  tree  never  falls  at  the 
first  stroke  !  It  

Mme.  Moorpiltz. — That's  a  fact,  old  girl! 

Ernestine  {pertly.) — Who  asked  you  to 
interrupt  ?  But  where  was  1  ?  Oh,  yes ! 
It  wasn't  my  fault  that  my  father  sent  me 
to  the  red  chamber  to  bring  him  a  sofa 
cushion  ;  the  red  chamber  is  next  the  blue 
one,  where  dear  old  Madame  Falkenbrun 
used  to  drink  her  tea,  except  in  the  winter 
time,  when  she  liked  the  yellow  breakfast- 
room  best,  because  

Mine.  Kunkel. — But,  my  child,  do  we 
need  to  hear  all  this  %  Proceed  with  your 
story ! 

Ernestine. — Excuse  me,  my  dear  old 
lady, — don't  interrupt !  Good  manners  are 
as  lovely  in  the  aged  as  in  the  young!  Obe- 
dience is  the  first  duty  of  a  child,  so  I  went 
for  the  cushion,  and  there,  lying  on  the 
damask  sofa,  was  a  great,  fat,  hideous, 
abominable,  gray  cat ! 

Mme.  KunJcel. — My  Molly  !  My  sweet 
creature ! 


Ernestine. — When  I  saw  the  horrid  tiling 
there,  I  took  the  large  fly-brush  and  beat 
her  off  the  sofa ! 

Mme.  Kunkel  {shrieking.) — Do  I  hear 
aright  ?    Alas  !  my  heart's  darling ! 

Ernestine.— She  turned  and  tried  to 
scratch  me,  but  I  caught  up  a  cord  from  the 
floor  and  tied  it  around  her  neck ! 

Mme.  KunJcel. — Wretch  !  Have  you 
slain  her  ? 

Ernestine. — Well,  cats,  like  men,  must 
bite  the  dust,  and  she's  happier  there  than 
here.  But  no,  she  is  not  dead !  She 
sprang  to  the  open  window  and  was  out 
before — 

Mine.  Kunkel — My  Molly !  Out  in  the 
cold,  cold  world  !  {Faints  away.  Two  of 
the  girls  support  her) 

Ernestine. — But  that  is  not  all  !  When 
she  sprang  on  the  table  I  heard  something 
go  smash  !  and  I  found  that  she  had  upset 
dozens  of  little  bottles  and  glasses  ! 

Mme.  Mousetooth. — Oh,  my  cologne ! 
My  orange-water  !  Even  my  beauty-water 
gone ! 

Ernestine. — Beauty-water  !  What  good 
is  that  to  you  at  your  age?  Yes,  perhaps  it 
was  yours,  for  suddenly  there  was  a  strong, 
unpleasant  smell  in  the  room  {snatches  her 
handkerchief  and  smells  it)  just  like  this, 
and  then  the  cat  and  I  together  upset  a  little 
box  full  of  ribbons  and  caps  and  curls  and 
feathers,  and  in  my  haste  I  crammed  them 
all  back  again,  and  as  they  would  not  go 
into  the  box,  I  had  to  put  my  foot  down 
and  press  them, — so, — and — 

Mme.  Mousetooth. — Oh,  my  caps  !  My 
feathers!  {Faints  aioay.  Two  others  of 
the  girls  support  her.) 

Mine.  Moorpiltz. — Never  mind  her,  my 
dear !  Go  on  with  your  interesting  tale  ! 
Have  a  pinch  ?  {offering  her  snuffbox.} 


276 


THE  UGLIEST  OF  SEVEN. 


Ernestine  (looki?ig  intensely  disgusted.) 
Bah  !  who  takes  snuff?  .  Its  not  a  fit  habit 
for  a  lady !    (  Upsets  the  hox.) 

Mme  Moorpiltz. — Saucy  creature  !  My 
best  snuff,  too !    {Tries  to  box  her  ears.) 

Ernestine. — Much  better  to  be  saucy  than 
to  fly  around  the  country  looking  like  a 
scarecrow,  at  the  head  of  a  pack  of  skeleton 
dogs ! 

Mme,  Moorpiltz  {furiously.) — Imperti- 
nent creature  !  You  shall  suffer  for  this  ! 
'  {Shakes  the  two  old  ladies,  who  come  back 
to  consciousness.)  Come,  wake  up,  old 
girls  !    Revenge ! 

{They  feebly  rise  and  glare  at  Ernestine,  then 
all  three  join  in  the  cry,  u  Revenge,  re- 
venge. ") 

Scene  III  — Same  room  as  before.  All  the  old 
ladies;  Ambrose;  Ernest;  all  the  girls. 

Ambrose. — Well,  dear  ladies,  I  hope  you 
have  finished  your  deliberations  satisfacto? 

iiy- 

"  A  person  of  taste 
Does  nothing  in  haste." 

And  surely  three  persons  of  such  excellent 
taste  require  a  very  lengthy  time  for  con- 
sideration. 

Mme.   Moorpiltz  {grimly.)  —  Yes,  my 
friend,  and  we  have  called  your  household 
together  in  order  to  give  them  a  specimen 
of  our  excellent  taste.    You  do  not  know, 
perhaps,  that  we  have  been  called  here  by 
the  will  of  the  late  Countess  to  decide 
which  of  your  seven  daughters  is  the  ugliest. 
All  the  girls  {astonished?) — The  ugliest  I 
Mme.  Kunkel. — Yes, — a  charming  fancy! 
Mme.  Mousetooth. — Dear,  departed  Coun- 
tess !    How  refreshing !    How  original ! 

Mme.  Moorpiltz. — And  we  all  agree  in 
declaring  {all  rise  and  speak  together  with 
great  emphasis)  that  the  loveliest  is  Rosa  ; 
the  ugliest,  Ernestine  t 


Ernest  {with  the  greatest  delight.) — The 
ugliest,  Ernestine  !    Oh,  say  it  again ! 

Mme.  Kunkel. — In  face  and  character  I 

Ernest  {embraces  the  old  ladies  in  turn.) 
Angels  of  heaven !  Dearest  friends !  Ac- 
cept my  warmest  thanks  !  I  bless  you  a 
thousand  times !  I  am  the  happiest  man 
in  the  world  ! 

Ambrose  {regretfully  ;  aside.) — Th^  bal- 
sam did  no  good  !  His  poor  head  is  quite 
light !  I  always  thought  he  was  a  little 
unsound  on  the  subject  of  animal  mag- 
netism ! 

Ernest  {to  Ernestine.) — Come  forward, 
chosen  of  my  heart !  You  are  mine, — you, 
as  well  as  the  castle,  lands,  forests,  woods 
and  waters  !  Father,  will  you  give  me  your 
daughter? 

Ambrose. — How  ?  What  ?  {Aside.)  If 
I  only  felt  sure  that  his  head  was  quite 
right. 

Ernest. — Read  that  paragraph  !  {He 
reads:)  "  All  this  property  to  be  his  for- 
ever, in  case  he  marries  the  ugliest  of  the 
seven  daughters  of  my  friend  Ambrose."' 
And  Ernestine  is  the  ugliest  ! 

Mme.  Moorpiltz  {impressively.) — We've 
been  fooled,  old  girls  ! 

Ernestine  {imploringly^ — Forgive  meT 
dear  ladies,  for  having  been  so  rude !  Love 
taught  me  deceit,  but  now  I  wish  to  atone 
for  it.  (To  Madame  Kunkel:)  Your 
Molly's  adventures  were  quite  fictitious, — 
she  sleeps  sweetly  on  the  white  pillow  in 
my  room ! 

Mme.  Kunkel  joyfully. — My  Molly  !  Is. 
it  possible  ? 

Ernestine  {to  Madame  Mousetooth:) — - 
Your  bottles  are  quite  safe,  dear  lady,^  and! 
the  beauty  water — which  indeed  you  do> 
not  need — is  unharmed.  To-morrow  a- 
flask  of  Persian  oil  of  roses  will  be  sent  you 


TRUSTY  AND  TRUE. 


277 


as  a  peace  offering.  (To  Madame  Moor- 
piltz:)  Forgive  the  rudeness  I  offered  you 
and  accept  from  Ernest  a  snuff-box  with 
your  monogram  in  diamonds.  And  now, 
can  you  forgive  me  ? 

All  three  ladies  (blandly.) — We  forgive ! 

Ernestine. — Now  father,  dear  father, 
your  consent,  your  blessing ! 

Ambrose  {wiping  his  eyes.) — My  dear,  I 


knew  something  of  this  kind  was  going  to 
happen,  such  a  singular  twitching  in  my  left 
eye, — always  a  sign  of  weeping  !  (Joins 
their  hands.)  But  after  this  I  will  put  no 
more  faith  in  unlucky  numbers,  for  I  have 
gained  a  most  charming  and  desirable  son- 
in-law,  because  my  little  Tina  was — 
All. — The  ugliest  of  seven  ! 

(Curtain  falls.) 


^^^t^^  "Pa"*  called 
worship  idols,  but^y'a^6*  als?'  they 
learn  the  wav*       ^Y:*5e  xerJ  anxious  to 


learn  the  ways  of  rivTi^^T  verJ  anxious  t 
hope  this  Sunrise  Emn £     OTP*  and  w 
'  Throve  the-  country^ ™*'lU  jf"  J*** 
Jesus  Christ,  the  true  C  16  rell&ion 

7-  Germany  '    "  of  "SHfeousnW 

the  '~-J     -  1 


of 


,  7-  Germany.-^  is  tU  fl ^tepusness. 
«e  land  of  Martin  Lu/^.  flaff° L**™"* 
,'eople  to  see  tUa-  ti,„  »  • uie'\  "fc  helped  the 
>n  Jesus  Christ  "  K  n'  -U,St  *hj#ve  °V  faith 
the  Pope  tells  them  »  0t  Slmply  J  "hat 

5S??S  fcJS"  WoJ   to  Brazil, 
away.    The  people  who  live  £°   S°  Vs*  f:,r 
I  Spaniards.  Portuguese  a.  if  f,       6  arf>ostly 
we  could  send  n      egr(  ts'    We  wish 

them  love  Jesus,  todLTT™^  to 
Piay  to  him.      '        °'e  to  read      ^ord  and 

K^Ke^te^,a;!f  fiff  is  of  the 
Part  of  Africa.  Thj Elf  °wn  Lhihe  central 
Continent,  because so life  " ',ed  the  Dark 
But  as  the  result  of  th.  r  -lu£Vs  kn°wn  of  it. 
gf  David  Liv i-ngstone  a  ?  f i'1  a  "oble  work 
Stanley  we  know  a Vreat  dlVi  °  He'^  M- 
especially  that  the  ry/nnL  aI  ,ahT°4t  ^  and 
mach.    We  have  several  m^-f  Je-SUS  very 

I  SSSffi        ma"y  more  ^fnanes  ^ere5; 

^KE^  -  a  Chris- 

Jand  Conventb.fjas  f  u?riSf(  U  *e  Cleve- 
can  say  that  there Si,  • V?  are&lad  we 
societies  in  all  of  these ^nfSLT1  ,Endeavor 
that  every  e-irl  a, ,3  k  co.unt"es,.and  we  wish 
'Wd  toya%rnio?socieytyIn  *"  Ia" 


^ND  TRUE, 


VOTERS. 


re 
.11 
r! 
of 
ur 

ar- 
to 

ra! 


over  me,  before  Pd  touch  an  algebra.  Sure 
enough,  what  do  you  stay  here  for  so  late 
o'nights  ? 

Russell. — Well,  to-night  I  stayed  to  do  a 
little  work  for  Mr.  Soule- — a  few  figures 


John  Russell, 
Frank  Grey, 
Amasa  Drew, 


Clerks. 


that  somehow  wouldn't  add  up  right.  But 
I've  balanced  everything  all  straight ;  and 
I'm  glad  of  it ;  they  were  in  a  snarl  some- 
what, but  its  all  right. 

Drew. — And  the  algebra  ? 

Russell. — Oh,  you  know  Mr.  Soule  told 
us  the  other  day  he  must  do  with  less  help 
soon.  And  as  I'm  the  youngest  clerk,  I 
expect  to  be  the  one  to  be  turned  off.  So 
I'm  brushing  up  a  little.  Just  to  prepare 
for  a  winter  campaign  of  teaching.  That's 
all 

Grey  (putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  looking  solemnly  at  Russell.) — Russell, 
how  old  are  you  ? 

Russell  (smiling.) — Oh,  I'm  almost  eight- 
een. Rather  young,  I  know  ;  but  I  taught 
last  winter  with  pretty  good  success.  I'll 
do  better  this  year. 

Grey. — Well,  I'm  glad  you  aren't  quite  a 


276 


THE  UGLIEST  OF  SEVEN. 


Ernestine  {looking  intensely  disgusted.) 
Bah  !  who  takes  snuff  ?  .  Its  not  a  fit  habit 
for  a  lady !    (  Upsets  the  box) 

Mine  Moorpiltz. — Saucy  creature  !  My 
best  snuff,  too !    {Tries  to  box  her  ears.) 

Ernestine. — Much  better  to  be  saucy  than 
to  fly  around  the  country  looking  like  a 
scarecrow,  at  the  head  of  a  pack  of  skeleton 
dogs  I 

Mme.  Moorpiltz  (fitriously) — Imperti- 
nent creature  !  You  shall  suffer  for  this  ! 
'  (Shakes  the  two  old  ladies,  who  come  bach 
to  consciousness.)  Come,  wake  up,  old 
girls  !    Revenge ! 

(They  feebly  rise  and  glare  at  Ernestine,  ther 
all  three  join  in  the  cry,  "Revenge,  re 
venge.^) 

Scene  III  — Same  room  as  before.  All  the  ol 
ladies;  Ambrose;  Ernest;  all  the  girls. 

Ambrose. — Well,  dear  ladies,  I  hope  jo 
have  finished  yonr  deliberations  satisfacto 

i'y- 

"  A  person  of  taste 
Does  nothing  in  haste." 

And  surely  three  persons  of  such  excelle 
taste  require  a  very  lengthy  time  for  c< 
sideration. 

Mme.   Moorpiltz  (grimly.)  —  Yes, 
friend,  and  we  have  called  your  househ 
together  in  order  to  give  them  a  specir 
of  our  excellent  taste.    You  do  not  kn 
perhaps,  that  we  have  been  called  hen 
the  will  of  the  late  Countess  to  de 
which  of  your  seven  daughters  is  the  ugl 
All  the  girls  {astonished) — The  ugl 
Mme.  Kunkel. — Yes, — a  charming  fi 
Mme.  Mousetooth. — Dear,  departed  Co. 
tess !    How  refreshing !    How  original ! 

Mme.  Moorpiltz. — And  we  all  agree  in 
declaring  {all  rise  and  speak  together  with 
great  emphasis)  that  the  loveliest  is  Rosa  ; 
the  ugliest,  Ernestine 


Ernest  (with  the  greatest  delight.) — The 
ugliest,  Ernestine  !    Oh,  say  it  again ! 

Mme.  Kunkel. — In  face  and  character  I 

Ernest  (embraces  the  old  ladies  in  turn.) 
Angels  of  heaven !  Dearest  friends !  Ac- 
cept my  warmest  thanks  !  I  bless  you  a 
thousand  times !  I  am  the  happiest  man, 
in  the  world  ! 

Ambrose  (regretfully  ;  aside.) — Th^  bal- 
sam did  no  good  !  His  poor  head  is  quite 
light !  I  always  thought  he  was  a  little 
unsound  on  the  subject  of  animal  mag- 
netism ! 

I  *  ^Cojwe^  forward, 

f'ont  of  the  Stv  th    a-%  C°mmittee  in 

]et  one  m^Lr  oi\Z  ££Z  °f  these 

reference  to  Ls  theme-  fl„V  Shaving 
^th  all  the  .itions       '  *°  g°  thrOU^h 


ILmtyfSUt/VO    \yv     =»*.   p 

Your  bottles  are  quite  safe,  dear  lady,  and: 
the  beauty  water — which  indeed  you  do> 
not  need — is  uuharmed.  To-morrow  a 
flask  of  Persian  oil  of  roses  will  be  sent  you 


TRUSTY  AND  TRUE. 


277 


as  a  peace  offering.  {To  Madame  Moor- 
piltz:)  Forgive  the  rudeness  I  offered  you 
and  accept  from  Ernest  a  snuff-box  with 
your  monogram  in  diamonds.  And  now, 
can  you  forgive  me  ? 

All  three  ladies  (blandly.) — We  forgive ! 

Ernestine, — Now  father,  dear  father, 
your  consent,  your  blessing ! 

Ambrose  {wiping  his  eyes.) — My  dear,  I 


knew  something  of  this  kind  was  going  to 
happen,  such  a  singular  twitching  in  my  left 
eye, — always  a  sign  of  weeping  !  {Joins 
their  hands.)  But  after  this  I  will  put  no 
more  faith  in  unlucky  numbers,  for  I  have 
gained  a  most  charming  and  desirable  son- 
in-law,  because  my  little  Tina  was — 
All. — The  ugliest  of  seven  ! 

{Curtain  falls.) 


6^  >4>°  *~et  &  ^  »*•  ^ 


TRUSTY   ANT>  TRUE. 


CHARACTERS. 

John  Russell,  ) 

Mr.  Soule,  a  Merchant.  Frank  Grey,  C  Clerks. 

Amasa  Drew,  ) 


Scene  I. — Counting-room.    Russell  seated  at  a 
desk,  busy  with  a  day-book  and  ledg  r. 

{Enter  Drew  and  Grey  unperceived  by  him.) 

Russell  {speaking  to  himself.) — There 
you  are!  I've  conquered  you  at  last.  All 
those  long  columns  of  figures  are  right,  sir ! 
Now,  John  Russell,  1  think  a  page  of 
algebra  will  get  the  cobwebs  out  of  your 
brain.    So  here's  at  it,  my  boy  ! 

Drew  {slapping  him  on  the  shoulder?) — 
So,  here's  your  den,  where  you  hide  your- 
self, old  fellow.  What  a  fool  you  are,  to 
work  two  hours  after  the  rest  are  out ! 

Grey, — And  now  he  talks  about  algebra! 
I'd  go  sailing  up  Salt  River,  with  a  sign 
over  me,  before  Pd  touch  an  algebra.  Sure 
enough,  what  do  you  stay  here  for  so  late 
o' nights  ? 

Russell. — Well,  to-night  I  stayed  to  do  a 
little  work  for  Mr.  Soule — a  few  figures 


that  somehow  wouldn't  add  up  right.  But 
I've  balanced  everything  all  straight ;  and 
I'm  glad  of  it ;  they  were  in  a  snarl  some- 
what, but  its  all  right. 

Drew. — And  the  algebra  ? 

Russell, — Oh,  you  know  Mr.  Soule  told 
us  the  other  day  he  must  do  with  less  help 
soon.  And  as  I'm  the  youngest  clerk,  I 
expect  to  be  the  one  to  be  turned  off.  So 
I'm  brushing  up  a  little.  Just  to  prepare 
for  a  winter  campaign  of  teaching.  That's 
all 

Grey  {putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  looking  solemnly  at  RusselL) — Russell, 
how  old  are  you  ? 

Russell  {smiling.) — Oh,  I'm  almost  eight- 
een. Rather  young,  I  know  ;  but  I  taught 
last  winter  with  pretty  good  success.  I'll 
do  better  this  year. 

Grey, — Well,  I'm  glad  you  aren't  quite  a 


TRUSTY  AND  TRUE. 


hundred.  A  fellow'd  think,  though,  to 
hear  you  talk,  that  you  came  out  of  the  ark. 

Drew. — Looks  arkish,  doesn't  he,  Frank? 
Well,  one  thing  1  know.  You're  a  fool  to 
work  over  your  hours  for  old  Soule.  He 
doesn't  pay  you  extra. 

Russell. — I  don't  ask  anything  for  a  little 
kindness  like  that.  Mr.  Soule  is  a  kind, 
considerate  employer,  and  does  a  great  deal 
for  us,  you  know.  I'm  glad  to  do  him  any 
little  favor,  I'm  sure. 

Grey. — "Well,  old  fellow,  don't  stay  here 
moping  all  the  evening.  Its  a  splendid 
night !    Come  with  us  and  have  some  fun. 

Russell. — What  kind  of  fun? 

Grey. — Oh,  most  anything.  A  hand  at 
euchre,  perhaps. 

Russell. — My  dear  fellow,  I  don't  know 
one  card  from  another.  In  the  ark,  where 
I  was  brought  up,  cards  are  non  est 

Drew. — Of  course.  Well,  say  a  game  of 
billiards,  for  variety. 

Russell. — I  am  not  going  to  the  billiard- 
room  again.  I  confess  to  a  fondness  for  the 
game,  but  they  make  it  a  regular  gambling 
operation  ;  and  such  a  set  of  profane,  half- 
drunken  rowdies  as  they  get  in.  No,  sir! 
I  beg  to  be  excused.  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
go,  boys. 

Drew. — Vve  no  conscientious  scruples, 
and  I'm  not  afraid.  /  wasn't  brought  up 
in  the  ark,  thank  fortune. 

Russell. — Mine  was  a  blessed,  restful, 
Eafe  old  ark,  thank  Heaven  !  The  memory 
of  it  has  been  a  safeguard  in  many  a  temp- 
tation. 

Grey. — Yes,  yes,  no  doubt !  You  make 
me  homesick;  for  your  words  bring  to 
mind  my  dear  old  home  in  the  country. 

Drew. — There,  boys,  don't  be  spoonies ! 
We'll  just  go  it  while  we're  young,  and 
have  a  good  time.    See  here,  Russell,  we 


came  in  to  ask  you  to  take  a  sail  with  us 
to-morrow.  There's  a  party  of  us  going 
over  to  the  island — its  going  to  be  a  splen- 
did day. 

Russell. — You  don't  mean  to-morrow  ! 
To-morrow's  Sunday!    You've  forgotten. 

Drew. — Forgotten  !  Just  as  if  it  could 
be  any  harm  for  us  poor  fellows,  who  are 
shut  up  within  brick  walls  six  days  out  of 
seven,  to  take  a  sail  on  Sunday ! 

Grey. — You  can  go  to  church  twice  and 
attend  your  Sunday-school,  and  then  go. 
That  wouldn't  be  breaking  the  Sabbath. 

Drew. — Come,  Russell,  do  go  just  for 
once  !  I  tell  you  Diamond  Island  is  just 
splendid  now.  Come. 

Russell. — Stop  a  moment.  Let  me  think. 
I  tell  you,  boys,  Td  like  to  go !  I've  been 
in  the  city  ten  months,  and  all  the  country 
I've  seen  is  that  pitiful  little  Common,  and 
the  bit  of  green  in  front  of  my  boarding 
house.  I'd  like  to  go,  if  it  was  right, 
but— 

Grey. — Hurra !  "  The  man  that  delib- 
erates is  lost."  He'll  go,  Drew ;  we  only 
want  him  to  complete  our  number.  We'll 
have  a  gay  old  time. 

Russell. — See  here,  boys,  don't  be  too 
fast.  Just  let  me  read  you  a  part  of  my 
mother's  last  letter.  {Takes  a  letter  f  rom 
his  breast  pocket,  and  opens  it.)  You  see, 
I  carry  it  next  my  heart.  (Reads:)  "  I 
hope,  my  child,  you  will  never  be  tempted 
to  spend  any  portion  of  the  Sabbath  in  a 
way  that  your  mother  would  not  approve. 
I  know  you  must  be  lonely  on  that  day,  and 
that  you  must  miss  us  all.  But  do  not  for- 
get that  day  belongs  to  God.  You  cannot 
expect  His  blessing,  if  you  do  not  'remem- 
ber the  Sabbath.'  "  Now,  boys,  you  see,  I 
sat  right  down  and  wrote  to  mother  that  I 
wouldn't  be  tempted  to  do  anything  on  the 


POOR  LITTLE  CRAB. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF  Tilt 
UNIVERSITY  Of  ILLINOIS 


TRUSTY  AND  TRUE. 


Sabbath  that  she  wouldn't  like  me  to  do. 
So  you  see  I  can't  go. 

Grey. — Well,  you  needn't  preach  any 
more.    We'll  get  enough  of  that  to-morrow. 

Russell. — I  beg  your  pardon,  boys.  I 
think  I  never  intruded  my  opinions  upon 
you  before.  But,  honest,  I  don't  think  it 
right  to  go  sailing  on  Sunday. 

Grey. — And,  honest,  I  don't — so  there  ! 
Russell. — Oh,  then,  be  true  to  your  con- 
science, and  don't  go. 

Grey. — I've  promised,  and  I  must  this 
once.  /  "  last  time. 


Dr\  IjfAln**WA» 


don't/ Mt.  Aubunfft  a,!niversary  celeb™- 

been/ <*£2£?™>**± 
nev<  Z: TlrUe'lde-  oTn^      -  *.  £ 


iojvs, 
and 


J  to*,  ~   Ti^e  5peeches  ^Z 

M  Banner:-  m^i?^'  andthe 

information.  We  have  inqufrliig  hi: 
you  see.    A  little  curiosity — that's  all. 

Russell. — But  I  do  suspect  your  inten- 
tions. You  want  to  get  Mr.  Soule's  "  Fa- 
vorite" to  go  sailing  with  to-morrow. 

Drew. — Granted.  He's  a  stingy  old 
scamp.  He  won't  let  his  boat,  and  there 
isn't  another  to  be  had,  for  love  or  money. 
All  you've  got  to  do  about  it  is  to  say  acci- 
dentally, where  he  keeps  the  key.  We 
know  you  have  charge  of  it. 

Russell  {  W liking  about  as  if  thinking, 
and  then  speaking) — Can  you  keep  a  secret 
boys  ? 

Drew. — Mum's  the  word.    ISTobodv  shall 


ever  know.  The  rack  couldn't  wring  it 
from  us. 

Grey. — Oh,  yes ;  we  can  keep  a  secret, 
and  we  will.    Let  us  have  it. 

Russell. — So  can  1;  and  so  I  will !  Mr. 
Soule  gave  me  the  care  of  the  boat-house 
key.  I  promised  him  I  would  neither  let 
it  go  out  of  my  possession,  nor  tell  where  I 
keep  it.  I  know  you'll  both  be  offended, 
but  I  can't  help  it.  My  motto  is  utrusty 
and  true"  and  I'll  stick  to  it  as  long  as  I 
live. 

Drew. — You're  a  booby,  spooney,  and 
— ~ «/i  f     I  cut  your  acquaintance  forever. 

) 

following  Drezv,  takes  Russell's 
d  speaks  in  a  low  voice.) — I  re- 

a,  Russell.    I  don't  blame  you ! 

•get  me. 

U. — Well,  they've  gone.    Heigho  ! 
ie  a  life  time  enemy ;  but  I  can't 
I'm  a  booby  and  a  spooney,  maybe, 
1  not  a  coward.    I  know  I'd  rather 
up  to  the  cannon's  mouth  than  to 
uch   music    as  this.      Oh,  dear ! 
l't  I  like  to  have  somebody  tell  me 
ot  a  booby.    I  wish  somebody  cared 
us  poor  stranger-boys.    When  I'm  a 
I'll  hunt  up  all  the  young  fellows,  and 
just  let  them  see  that  somebody  has  an  in- 
terest in  them.    I'll  ask  them  to  church 
and  Sabbath-school  and — ah !  well !  that's 
another  of  my  foolish  notions.    I  suppose  I 
must  be  a  little  unfinished  in  the  upper 
story.    I'll  off  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  {Exit.) 
{Curtain.) 

Scene  II. — Place  same  as  before.    Time,  Monday 
morn  ng.    Mr.  Soule  sitting  by  a  desk. 

{Enter  Russell.) 

Russell. — You  wished  to  see  me,  sir  ? 
Soule. — Ah,   Russell!     {Extending  his 
hand.)    Glad  to  see  you  so  prompt !  Sit 


A  great  blank  would  be  made  in  the  world's 
knowledge.  The  occasional  great  thoughts 
that  came  to  heathen  seekers  after  God  would 
have  been  swallowed  up  in  hopelessness  and 
doubt.  All  literature  that  had  its  root  in  the 
thought  of  Him  that  was  the  Truth,  and  every 
school  of  learning  founded  with  the  purpose 
of  teaching  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  would  be 
wiped  out  of  existence. 

The  most  glorious  pages  would  be  torn  out 
of  histoiy.  War  would  be  the  natural  state  of 
nations  in  their  hatred  for  one  another.  No 
such  idea  as  that  of  the  brotherhood  of  man 
would  have  dawned  on  the  race.  "Stranger" 
and  "  enemy  "  would  have  remained  synonyms, 
and  slavery  would  still  cast  its  blight  every- 
where. Missionary  heroism  would  have  been 
impossible,  and,  without  the  daring  that  has 


TRUSTY  AND  Tit  UK 


Sabbath  that  she  wouldn't  like  me  to  do. 
So  you  see  I  can't  go. 

Grey. — Well,  you  needn't  preach  any 
more.    We'll  get  enough  of  that  to-morrow. 

Russell. — I  beg  your  pardon,  boys.  I 
think  I  never  intruded  my  opinions  upon 
you  before.  But,  honest,  I  don't  think  it 
right  to  go  sailing  on  Sunday. 

Grey. — And,  honest,  I  don't — so  there  ! 

Russell. — Oh,  then,  be  true  to  your  con- 
science, and  don't  go. 

Grey. — I've  promised,  and  I  must  this 
once.    But  it  shall  be  the  very  last  time. 

Drew. — Hold  your  tongue,  Grey,  and 
don't  be  a  fool.  Russell,  you've  always 
been  a  clever  fellow,  never  poking  your 
nose  into  other  folks'  business,  and  you've 
never  "let  on"  about  us  fellows  who  don't 
think  as  you  do.  I  respect  you  for  it.  And 
now  I  want  you  to  do  us  a  favor,  will  you  ? 

Russell. — Certainly,  if  I  can. 

Drew. — Well,  you  can.  Tell  us  where 
old  Soule  keeps  the  key  to  his  boat-house. 

Grey. — You  are  not  supposed  to  mistrust 
what  we  want  to  know  for. 

Drew. — Oh,  we  want  to  know  just  for 
information.  We  have  inquiring  minds 
you  see.    A  little  curiosity — that's  all. 

Russell. — But  I  do  suspect  your  inten- 
tions. You  want  to  get  Mr.  Soule's  "  Fa- 
vorite" to  go  sailing  with  to-morrow. 

Drew. — Granted.  He's  a  stingy  old 
scamp.  He  won't  let  his  boat,  and  there 
isn't  another  to  be  had,  for  love  or  money. 
All  you've  got  to  do  about  it  is  to  say  acci- 
dentally, where  he  keeps  the  key.  We 
know  you  have  charge  of  it. 

Russell  (  Walking  about  as  if  thinking, 
and  then  speaking) — Can  you  keep  a  secret 
boys  ? 

Drew. — Mum's  the  word.    Nobody  shall 


ever  know.  The  rack  couldn't  wring  it 
from  us. 

Grey. — Oh,  yes ;  we  can  keep  a  secret, 
and  we  will.    Let  us  have  it. 

Russell. — So  can  1;  and  so  I  will !  Mr. 
Soule  gave  me  the  care  of  the  boat-house 
key.  I  promised  him  I  would  neither  let 
it  go  out  of  my  possession,  nor  tell  where  I 
keep  it.  I  know  you'll  both  be  offended, 
but  I  can't  help  it.  My  motto  is  "trusty 
and  true"  and  I'll  stick  to  it  as  long  as  I 
live. 

Drew. — You're  a  booby,  spooney,  and 
coward  !  I  cut  your  acquaintance  forever. 
{Goes  out.) 

Grey  {following  Drew,  takes  Russell's 
hand,  and  speaks  in  a  low  voice.) — I  re- 
spect you,  Russell.  I  don't  blame  you ! 
Don't  forget  me. 

Russell. — Well,  they've  gone.  Heigho  ! 
I've  made  a  life  time  enemy ;  but  I  can't 
help  it !  I'm  a  booby  and  a  spooney,  maybe, 
but  I'm  not  a  coward.  I  know  I'd  rather 
march  up  to  the  cannon's  mouth  than  to 
face  such  music  as  this.  Oh,  dear ! 
wouldn't  I  like  to  have  somebody  tell  me 
I'm  not  a  booby.  I  wish  somebody  cared 
about  us  poor  stranger-boys.  When  I'm  a 
man,  I'll  hunt  up  all  the  young  fellows,  and 
just  let  them  see  that  somebody  has  an  in- 
terest in  them.  I'll  ask  them  to  church 
and  Sabbath-school  and — ah !  well !  that's 
another  of  my  foolish  notions.  I  suppose  I 
must  be  a  little  unfinished  in  the  upper 
story.  I'll  off  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  {Exit.) 
{Curtain.) 

Scene  II. — Place  same  as  before.    Time,  Monday- 
morn  ng.    Mr.  Soule  sitting  by  a  desk. 

{Enter  Russell.) 

Russell. — You  wished  to  see  me,  sir  ? 
Soule. — Ah,   Russell!     {Extending  his 
hand.)    Glad  to  see  you  so  prompt !  Sit 


262 


TRUSTY  AND  TRUE. 


down  here.  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  you. 

Russell  {Taking  a  seat.) — Thank  you,  sir; 
I've  been  expecting  this  for  a  week.  I 
suppose  you  are  about  to  make  the  change 
you  spoke  of.  I'm  sorry  to  go,  sir,  but  as 
I  am  the  youngest  clerk,  I  expected  to  be 
the  first  one  turned  off. 

Soule. — Yes,  I  am  making  some  changes 
in  my  business,  and  some  two  or  three  must 
be  discharged.  You  found  the  snarl  here, 
(laying  his  hand  on  the  ledger,)  and 
unraveled  it,  I  see. 

Russell, — Yes,  sir  ;  I  think  it  is  all  right. 

/Soule. — All  right,  Russell,  and  very  well 
done.    Have  you  seen  Drew  this  morning  ? 

Russell. — No,  sir  ;  neither  Drew  nor 
Grey.  I  wonder  where  they  are  to-day. 
I  noticed  neither  of  their  desks  were  filled. 

Soule. — Then  you  haven't  heard  the 
news  ? 

Russell. — No3  sir !    What  news  ? 

Soule. — Frank  Grey  had  his  eye  put  out 
last  night,  in  a  billiard  saloon,  in  a  drunken 
quarrel. 

Russell. — Frank  Grey  !  Poor  fellow ! 
You  don't  mean  to  say  he  had  been  drink- 
ing, Mr.  Soule  ? 

Soule. — No,  I  think  not.  He  got  mixed 
up  in  the  quarrel  somehow.  It  is  a  great 
pity  he  was  ever  tempted  to  go  there  at  all. 
Grey  is  not  very  wicked  yet,  only  a  little 
weak. 

Russell. — Perhaps  this  may  save  him.  I 
hope  so.  He's  good-hearted.  Poor  Frank! 
Lost  an  eye  !    How  terrible ! 

Soide. — Yes,  but  it  might  have  been 
worse.  If  the  loss  of  an  eye  will  reform  his 
character  and  make  his  life  useful,  it  will 
be  a  mercy,  after  all.  There's  another  bad 
piece  of  news  which  I  presume  you  haven't 
heard.    Drew  is  in  the  lockup. 


Russell  (astonished.) — In  the  where  % 

Soule. — In  "durance  vile,"  Russell,  on 
the  charge  of  breaking  and  entering. 

Russell. — Whose  store?  Can  this  be 
true,  Mr.  Soule? 

Soule. — Captain  Nelson's  boat-house.  He 
stole  Nelson's  yacht,  he  and  some  other  fel- 
lows, and  went  pleasuring.  Nelson's  angry, 
of  course,  and  had  them  arrested  this  morn- 
ing. 

Russell. — It  is  a  sad  thing  !  I  am  very 
sorry.    Was  Grey  one  of  the  party  ? 

Soule. — No,  he  wasn't.  Ho  had  a  sick 
headache  all  day,  and  it  is  a  great  pity  it 
hadn't  lasted  all  the  evening  as  well. 

Russell. — Somebody  coaxed  him  off. 
The  poor  fellow  could  never  say  "no." 

Soule. — Its  a  great  pity.  The  fact  is,  he 
isn't  "trusty  and  true?"*  Yery  few  young 
men  are.  When  I  find  one  that  is,  I  con- 
sider him  worth  his  weight  in  diamonds — 
eh,  John  ? 

Russell, — Yes,  sir;  I  suppose  so,  sir. 
That  is,  my  parents  always  taught  me  so. 

Soule. — Don't  blush  so,  Russell,  my  dear 
fellow.  I  didn't  mean  to  play  eaves-drop- 
per last  Saturday  night,  but  I  heard  your 
conversation  wTith  Drew  and  Grey.  You 
have  been  well  taught,  and  you  do  your 
parents  honor.  You  shall  not  suffer  for 
your  defence  of  me  and  my  property,  I 
assure  you. 

Russell. — I  only  did  my  duty,  sir.  When 
do  you  want  me  to  leave — to-day  ? 

Soule. — I  don't  want  you  to  leave  at  all. 

Russell. — I  thought  you  said — 

Soule. — You  mustn't  jump  at  conclu- 
sions. I  said  I  was  about  making  some 
change,  and  I  am.  I  sent  for  you  to  offer 
you  the  clerkship  made  vacant  by  Drew. 
That  gives  you  a  jump  over  four  years,  and 
will  more  than  double  your  salary. 


THE  TEMPERANCE  LESSON. 


Russell. — Oh,  Mr.  Soule,  bow  can  I  thank 
you  ?  Do  you  think  I  am  competent  to  do 
his  work  ? 

Soule. — I  think  so.  That  was  his  work 
you  righted  up  on  Saturday  night. 

Russell. — Mr.  Soule,  you  never  can  know 
what  you  have  done  for  us  all — mother  and 
sister  and  me.  I  hope  you  will  never  have 
cause  to  regret  your  kindness. 

Soule. — I  never  shall,  if  you  continue 
trusty  and  true.    That  is  all  I  ask  of  you. 


For  no  man  can  be  that  to  the  full,  without 
being  more — a  true  Christian. 

{He  shakes  RiosselVs  hand,  and  exits.) 

Russell  {pinching  himself?) — It  isn't  me. 
I  must  be  dreaming.  John  Russell,  the 
booby,  spooney,  coward  !  O  mother,  it  all 
comes  of  your  teaching!  And  earnestly 
will  I  pray  that  I  be  not  led  into  tempta- 
tion, but  ever  be  trusty  and  true. 

{Curtain?) 


<^  *•  y     A  ^  


THE    TEMPERANCE  LESSON. 


Scene —The  aunt  sits  at  a  table,  writing;  across 
the  room  two  boys  and  girls  are  reading  from 
her  account-book. 

Aunt  {speaking  crossly.) — 
Be  still,  you  children  over  there  ! 
You  bother  me,  I  do  declare  ! 
With  all  this  long  report  to  write, 
To  read  at  Temperance  Club  to-night ; 
I  cannot  stand  your  dreadful  noise  ; 
Be  quiet  there,  you  girls  and  boys ! 

( Writing.) 
{Aside.)  I  joined  the  club  a  week  ago, 
Not  that  /  needed  it — oh,  no  ! 
But  just  to  work  for  those  who  do, 
Our  city  streets  and  lanes  all  through. 

Sam  {looking  up  from  account-book.) 
See,  Nell !  I  find,  to  my  surprise, 
Put  down  here,  "  Brandy  for  mince-pies!  " 
Do  you  suppose  Aunt  Ann  can  think 
'Tis  right  to  eat  what  we  can't  drink  f 

Aunt  {vexed). — 
Sam,  put  that  book  down,  right  away ! 
Dear  me  !  I  shan't  get  through  to-day  ! 


{Aside.)  I  never  thought  of  that,  ?tis  true  -y 
But  what  else  for  the  pies  will  do  ? 

Nell  {reading). — 
Say,  Joe,  can  this  be  a  mistake  ? 
I  find  here  written,  "  "Wine  for  cake." 
If  wine  is  what  makes  cake  so  good, 
I'm  not  surprised  men  drink ; — I  would  !. 

Aunt  {angry). — 
Nell,  noisy  Nell !  what  have  you  there  ? 
You  trouble  me  too  much  to  bear  ! 
{Aside.)  Can  I  be  giving  them  a  taste 
For  that  which  ruin  brings,  and  waste  ? 

Joe. — 

And  I  see  here  a  charge  for  "  Wine 
For  jelly."    So  this  aunt  of  mine 
Is  not  consistent,  though  she  be 
Most  eloquent  in  Temperance  plea  ! 

Aunt. — 

Bring  me  that  book  !    When  I  was  young.. 
This  was  the  word  of  ever^y  tongue  : 
"  Children  are  better  seen  than  heard." 
And  I  believe  it — every  word ! 


.284 


VISIT  OF  SANTA  CLA  US. 


Alice. — 

Well,  auntie,  don't  be  cross,  but  see 
If  you  will  not  with  us  agree  ; 
•Since  "actions  louder  talk  than  speech," 
You'd  better  practice  first,  then — preach 


Aunt  {rising,  laughing). — 
You  saucy  children,  though  you're  right, 
And  though  you  put  me  in  a  plight, 
I  do  declare  to  now  prepare, 
And  practice  what  I  preach. 


VISIT    OF    SANTA  CLAUS, 


Santa  Claus, 

Mary, 

Bob, 

Sam, 

John, 

Tom, 


Maria, 

Willie, 

Susie, 

Peter, 

Minnie, 

Sallie, 


Franky, 

Maud, 

Robert, 

Charley, 

Maggie, 

Baby. 


(The  smallest  child  who  runs  alone.) 


Scene. — A  sitting-room  in  a  very  dim  light.  Center 
of  back-ground,  a  fire-place  with  a  dark  curtain 
hanging  across  it.  A  line,  stretched  across  the 
top  of  curtain,  is  hung  with  seventeen  empty 
stockings  varying  in  size,  baby's  short  sock  in 
the  center. 

Curtain  rises  to  soft  music.  After  a  moment, 
sleigh-bells  are  heard  very  faintly,  as  if  at  a  dis- 
tance: the  jingle  comes  nearer  and  louder  till 
it  falls  with  a  crash  behind  the  chimney  curtain. 

The  curtain  parts  in  the  center,  and  Santa  Claus 
bounds  into  the  room  with  a  pack  of  toys  and 
sweets  upon  his  back. 

Santa  Claus. — 
Well,  here  I  am  !    Expected  too,  I  see ! 
Those  empty  stockings  surely  gape  for  me ! 
To  fill  them  all,  I  must  not  long  delay, 
For  I  have  much  to  do  ere  peep  of  day. 
I've  many  pretty  things  to  greet  the  sight 
Of  little  folks  who  soundly  sleep  to-night, 
Dreaming  of  Santa  Claus,  his  reindeer 
sleigh, 

And  of  the  gifts  he  brings  on  Christmas 

Day.  ■ 
"Now  let  me  see ! 


(Takes  off  his  pack,  and  begins  to  JiU 
stockings.) 

There's  blue-eyed  little  Mary ! 
To  her  I'll  give  this  beautiful  canary. 
It  will  not  sing,  but  it  will  squeak  instead, 
And  it  does  not  require  to  be  fed ! 
Charley  a  long  tailed  chestnut  horse  will 
find  ; 

And  Bob  an  organ,  that  a  tune  will  grind. 
Dear  little  Maggie  must  have  a  new  doll ; 
And  Sam  will  surely  like  this  pretty  Poll. 
Halloo!    What  is  John's  stocking  doing 
here  ? 

John !   John !    You'll  disappointed  be,  I 
fear ! 

There's  nothing  for  a  bad  boy  in  my  pack, 
Except  this  rod,  to  lay  across  your  back  ! 

(Puts  a  long  rod  in  John's  stocking.) 

My  little  bird  who  flies  around  each  year, 
To  gather  news  about  the  children  dear, 
Down  on  my  shoulder  did  this  morning  fly, 
To  tell  me  naughty  John  had  told  a  lie ! 


VISIT  OF  SANTA  CLA  US. 


2S5: 


For  such  a  fault  my  anger  is  severe, 
So  John  must  have  no  toys  nor  sweets  this 
year. 

Sallie's  too  big  for  toys  and  cakes  to  look ; 
What  shall  I  leave  for  Sallie  ?  Oh,  a  book  ; 
A  book  of  Fairy  Stories,  bound  in  blue, 
And  I  will  leave  one  for  Maria,  too. 
Why,  bless  my  heart !    What  tiny  sock  is 
here  ? 

This  surely  must  belong  to  baby  dear ! 
Baby  must  have  a  rattle  and  a  ball, 
And  this  white  dog  to  baby's  share  must 
fall, 

An  orange  and  a  bon-bon  too  go  here — 
Baby  must  always  have  the  best,  that's 
clear. 

Willie  a  trumpet  wants,  and  Tom  a  kite; 
In  this  nice  work-box,  Susie  will  delight ! 
Franky  a  horn,  Peter  a  drum  will  prize, 
And  pretty  Maud  a  blue-eyed  doll  that 
cries. 

A  top  and  whistle  fall  to  Robert's  share, 
And  Minnie  shall  have  this  great  sugar 
pear. 

Tut !  tut !  my  pack  is  emptying  fast ;  I  fear 
I  must  go  home  again  when  I  leave  here, 
And  fill  it  up  once  more.    No  child  to- 
morrow 

Must  o'er  an  empty  stocking  weep  in  sor- 
row. 

Here  still  are  nuts  and  things  for  all  to  eat, 
Bon-bons  and  grapes  the  little  ones  to  treat! 
But  not  too  many,  or  I  have  a  fear 
Dr.  Physic-them-all  will  come  in  here. 
Are  all  these  stockings  filled  ?    Yes,  every 
one ! 

My  task  in  this  room  for  to-night  is  done  f 
Soft  eyelids  closed  in  sleep  will  soon  awake! 
A  Christmas  stocking  every  child  will  take. 
Good  wishes  go  with  all !  Each  girl  and 
boy 

Their  Christmas  Day  begin  and  end  in  joy! 


Good  night !  good  night !  Sleep,  little  chil- 
dren, sleep ! 

Before  the  dawn  of  Christmas  Day  shall 
peep, 

Or  merry  voices  rise  in  gladsome  play, 
Santa  Claus  must  be  many  miles  away. 
Next  year  I'll  make  them  all  another  call. 
Good  night !  good  night !  A  merry  Christ- 
mas all ! 

[Straps  on  his  pack  again,  and  goes  behind 
chimney  curtain.  The  sleigh  bells  are  heard 
again,  loud  at  first,  but  growing  fainter y 
until  they  seem  to  die  away  in  the  distance. 
Soft  music  again,  during  the  continuance  of 
which  the  light  in  the  room  grows  gradually 
brighter,  as  if  at  the  approach  of  daylight. 
When  the  room  is  brightly  lighted,  the  music 
ceases,  and  children *s  voices  are  heard,  shout- 
ing, "Merry  Christmas !  Merry  Christmas!'"3 

Enter  Mary,  Bob,  Sam,  John,  Tom7 
Franky,  Maud,  Robert,  Charley,  Maggie,  Sal- 
He,  Maria,  Willie,  Peter,  Minnie,  and  Susie 
leading  the  baby.  They  all  run  to  the  fire- 
place, each  child  taking  a  stocking.  Foery 
child  is  dressed  in  a  long  ichite  night-gown 
and  little  white  night- cap.) 

Mary. — Oh,  my! 

Bob. — Do  see  ! 

Sam. — What  lovely  things  are  here  ! 
Tom. — How  pretty  ! 
Franky. — Isn't  Santa  Claus  a  dear  ! 
Maud. — I  never  saw  so  many  charming 
toys! 

Robert. — We  surely  should  be  happy  girls 
and  boys! 

Charley.— Oh!  Oh! 
Maggie.— Ah  !  Ah ! 
Sallie. — I've  got  a  pretty  book ! 
Maria. — I've  got  another ! 
Willie. — Mine's  a  trumpet! 
Peter. — Look ! 

Minnie. — Oh,  what  a  splendid  Christ 
mas!  See! 


386 


pm  a  man; 


/Susie. — What  a  fine  work-box  lias  been 
left  for  me! 

Jo  fin. — Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  I  haven't 
.got  a  toy;  only  a  rod  is  left  for  a  bad  boy ! 

(John  goes  in  a  corner  and  sits  down,  dig- 
ging his  knuckles  into  his  eyes,  as  if  crying. 
The  others  form  a  ring  around  the  baby,  who 
sits  on  the  floor  with  its  toys.) 

Children  {waving  stockings  and  toys,  and 
singing. ) 

Air — "  We'll  be  gay  and  happy  still? 

-Santa  Claus  has  been  to  see  us, 
Toys  he's  left  for  one  and  all! 
Every  heart  is  full  of  pleasure, 
After  Santa  makes  a  call! 

So  we'll  sing  and  dance  and  cheer1. 

Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year! 


We  will  sing  and  dance  and  cheer! 
Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year! 

(Chorus  of  drums,  horns,  trumpets  and 
whistles.) 

John  (singing  dolefully  in  the  corner.) 

Santa  Claus  has  been  to  see  us, 
But  he's  left  no  toy  for  me ! 
If  a  little  boy  is  naughty, 
Santa  Claus  will  angry  be  ! 

All.— 

So  all  bad  boys,  heed  and  fear! 
Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year! 
So  all  bad  boys,  heed  and  fear, 
Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year! 

(  Chorus  as  before.     Curtain  falls.) 


<S^  »  &  -4  


I'M    iL  MAN. 


Willy, 

Bobby  and  Jenny  read  at  a  table.  Enter  Willy,  a 
very  small  boy,  with  a  man's  hat,  coat,  boots 
and  scarf  on,  and  a  very  big  cane  in  his  hand. 
He  must  take  long  steps  like  a  man. 

Willy. — How  do  you  do? 

Jenny. — Oh,  look  at  Willy ! 

Bobby. — How  funny  you  look,  Willy. 

Willy. — I'm  not  Willy — I'm  a  man! 
Jenny. — Oh,  you  are  a  man,  are  you? 

Willy. — I'm  Mr.  Jones,  come  to  call  on 
you,  like  the  big  folks  do. 

Bobby. — I'm  very  glad  to  see  yon. 

Willy. — How  do  you  do  ? 
Jenny,— Yery  well.    How  do  you  do  % 


Jenny. 

Willy. — Mis-sa-ble,  thank  you.  I've  got 
the  foo-en-za. 

Jenny. — What  a  pity. 
Willy. — You  must  ask  me  to  take  a  chair. 
Bobby. — To  be  sure!    Do  take  a  chair, 
Mr.  Jones. 

Willy. — Thank  you.  (Sits  down.)  Now 
say,  "  How  are  all  the  folks  ? " 

Jenny. — How  are  all  the  folks,  Mr.  Jones  ? 
Willy. — Yery  well.    Only  Tom. 
Bobby.— -Is  Tom  sick  ? 
Willy. — He's  got  colly-wobly  fits ! 
Jenny. — Oh,  dear! 
Bobby. — How  is  Sally  ? 


Bobby, 


VACATION  FUN. 


287 


Willy. — Sally's  died  by  this  time  o'day. 

Jenny. — Was  she  so  sick  ? 

Willy. — She  was  sick,  with  roo-mon-nia- 
fever.    Yery  bad. 

Bobby.— Poor  Sally ! 
Willy. — Why  don't  you  ask  me  to  ta^e 
off  my  hat  ? 

Jenny. — Do  take  off  your  hat,  Mr.  t,  ones. 
Willy  {puts  hat  on  table.) — I  can't  stay 
long.    I've  got  an  ee-gage-ment  on  biz-zi- 
ness. 

Bobby. — Oh,  do  stay  to  tea. 

Willy. — Yery  sorry  I  can't.  I'll  come 
some  other  time. 

Jenny. — Oh,  you  funny  boy. 

Willy. — I'm  a  man. 

Bobby. — What  makes  you  a  man,  Willy  ? 
Willy. — Papa's  coat,  papa's  hat,  papa's 
cane. 

Jenny. — So  a  coat,  hat  and  cane  make  a 
man  ? 

Willy. — Yes;  I'm  a  man  now.  I  must 
go.    {Puts  on  his  hat.) 

Bobby. — I'm  sorry  you  are  in  such  a 
hurry.    Call  again. 


6^- 


Willy. — Yes  sir.  {Trips  on  his  coat  and 
falls.)    Oh  !  oh!  {Cries.)    I  hurt  my  head. 
Jenny. — Poor  boy! 

Bobby. — A  man  don't  cry  when  he  is 
hurt. 

Willy. — But  it  aches.  {Sobs.) 

Jenny. — Never  mind. 

Willy. — I  won't  cry  any  more.  I'm  Mr. 
Jones.  Will  you  come  and  see  me  some 
day,  Mrs.  Smith  ? 

Jenny. — Yery  happy,  sir. 

Willy. — Give  my  love  to  all  the  folks. 

Bobby. — We  will. 

Willy. — I  would  stay  to  tea,  only  I  must 
see  a  gem-ple-man  down  town  about  some 
very  im-port-in  biz-zi-ness  to-day.  Good 
bye! 

Jenny. — Good  bye.  I  hope  Sally  and 
Tom  will  soon  be  well. 

Willy. — Thank  you,  ma'am.  We  will 
give  them  some  lin-de-ment  and  har-ness 
oil,  to  cure  them. 

Bobby. — Good  bye. 

Willy. — Good  bye. 

(Goes  out.) 

, — _<  


VACATION  FUN. 


Some  boys  and  girls  are  talking  together.  Little 
Grandmother  sits  off  at  one  side,  knitting,  and 
commenting  in  an  aside,  as  they  speak,  but  not 
interrupting  them. 

Archie. — 
Boys  and  girls,  vacation  is  coming, 

And  now  let's  all  of  us  say 
Where  we  would  go  and  what  we  would  see, 
If  things  could  be  as  they  ought  to  be, 

And  boys  and  girls  had  their  own  way. 

Grandmother.  — 
"  Had  their  own  way  !  "    'Tis  my  beliei 


In  a  very  short  time  they'd  come  to 

Shelton. — 


grief. 


Oh,  Archie  ! 


I  wouldn't  take  long  to  de- 


cide : 

I'd  build  a  beautiful  boat ; 
To  the  Northern  Polar  Sea  I'd  sail, 
And  catch  the  walrus,  and  seal,  and  whale, 

And  that  would  be  fun  afloat ! 

Grandmother. — 
In  his  beautiful  boat  he'd  have  a  mess 
With  walrus,  and  seal,  and  whale,  I  guess. 

Ethel.— 


2SS 


A  COLLOQUY. 


Now,  Shelton,  I'd  choose  something  better 

than  that: 
Up  the  Amazon  I'd  run, 
Where  parrots  chatter  and  monkeys  swing, 
And  bright  little  humming-birds  flit  and 

sing  — 

And  oh,  wouldn't  that  be  fun  ! 

Grandmother. — 
Now  hear  the  child  talk !    It  makes  me 
smile0 

Nice  dinner  she'd  make  for  a  crocodile  ! 

Gerty. — 

Oh,  Ethel !  see  how  you  like  my  plan  : — • 

I'd  have  a  seal-skin  dress, 
Then  up  to  the  Hudson's  Bay  I'll  go 
To  the  queer  snow-huts  of  the  Esquimaux, 

And  that  will  be  fun,  I  guess ! 

Grandmother. — 
Has  that  girl  forgotten,  do  you  suppose, 
It  is  cold  enough  there  to  freeze  her  nose  ? 

Lulu. — 

I  can  tell  you  a  trip  worth  two  of  that, 

Nor  half  so  cold  and  rough  ; 
For  a  girl  of  my  studious  disposition, 
A  trip  to  the  Paris  exposition 

Of  fun  there  would  be  enough. 


Grandmother. — 
Poor  thing!  half  frightenedto  death  she'd  be 
Before  she  was  half  way  over  the  sea ! 

Robbie. - 

Now,  Lulu,  to  China,  the  land  of  tea, 

I'd  make  up  my  mind  to  go ; 
Where  they  have  such  queer  little  slanting 
eyes, 

And  sell  young  rats  and  puppies  for  pies, — 
And  that  must  be  fun,  you  know ! 

Grandmother  {turning  to  them:) — 
Well !  well !  it  seems  you  would  each  forsake 

The  land  I  jolliest  call. 
Better  sail  your  boats  in  the  Yankee  rills ; 
Better  chase  your  sport  over  Yankee  hills ; 

That  will  be  the  best  fun  of  all. 

All.— 

Little  grandmother's  right !    Three  cheers 

for  you ! 
Your  way  is  the  wisest  one. 
Wherever  we  go,  she  shall  lead  the  van, 
She  shall  march  this  way — now  see  our 

plan, — 

And  isn't  this  jolly  fun  ! 
Yes,  isn't  this  jolly  fun  ! 

(Two  boys  take  Little  Grandmother  be- 
tween them,  in  her  little  arm  chair,  and  carry 
her  off  the  stage,  the  rest  folloicing.) 


-2^ 


A.  COLLOQUY. 

FOR  TWO  LITTLE  BITS  OF  GIRLS  AND  THEIR  DOLLIES. 

TWO  MAMMAS. 


Mamma  Kate,  {with  her  dollie  lying  on 
the  floor:) — 

"Now  stop  that  yelling  this  minute,  I  say  ! 

What  do  you  mean  by  lying  there  ? 
I  won't  let  you  go  out  doors  to-day, — 

You  naughty  baby  to  pull  my  hair ! " 


Mamma  Nellie,  (to  her  baby  in  hei 
arms:) — 

"  Hush,  my  darling,  don't  you  cry, — 
Shut  your  eyes  and  go  to  sleep ; 

You  shall  ride  out,  by-and-by  : 

There  !  there  !  baby,  don't  you  peep  J  * 


SIGNING  THE  PLEDGE. 


2S9 


Mamma  Kate,  (in  a  loud,  cross  voice:) — 
"  Now  stop  that  kicking  this  minute,  I  say  ! 

There  never  was  such  a  naughty  child  ! 
Just  because  you  can't  run,  and  play, 

You  make  a  fuss,  and  drive  me  wild." 

Mamma  Nellie,  (in  a  sweet  low  tone:) — 
"  Hush,  my  darling !  mamma's  here  ; 

Snug  your  head  down  on  my  arm  ! 
I  won't  leave  you,  never  fear, — 

Mamma's  baby  safe  from  harm." 

Mamma  Kate,  (in  a  vert  cross  voice:) — 
"Now  stop  that  pulling!    I'll  slap  your 
hand  ! 

You  need  a  wnipping;  I  know  right  well; 


SCENE  I. 

Room  in  the  Clayton  home.  Mr.  C.  reading 
paper;  Mrs.  C.  sewing;  the  children  doing  vari- 
ous things. 

Edward. — Well,  mother,  how  about  your 
temperance  work  ;  I  heard  you  women  were 
going  to  crusade.    Is  it  so  ? 

Mrs.  Clayton. — If  they  do,  I  think  I 
shall  be  one  of  them.  Wouldn't  I  be  in  the 
path  of  duty  ? 

Edioard. — Maybe.  But  I  think  a  better 
plan  would  be  to  get  intoxicating  drinks 
out  of  your  own  house  first.  Everybody 
knows  father  keeps  a  sideboard  well  filled 
with  choice  wines. 


Such  work  as  this,  I  cannot  stand : 
I'll  shut  you  up  and  let  you  yell  1 " 

Mamma  Nellie,  (to  Mamma  Kate: )  — » 
"  There !  my  darling's  fast  asleep, 

Now  I'll  lay  him  softly  down  ; 
May  will  stay  by  him,  and  keep 

Watch,  while  we  go  into  town.'' 

Mamma  Kate,  (to  Mamma  Nellie:) — 
"  I  look  like  going  !  he'll  yell  all  day  ! 

Such  times  as  I  have,  make  me  sick ! 
Babies  are  all  alike,  they  say, — 

That's  stuff  and  nonsense ;  yours  don'* 
kick!" 


srs. 


Mr.  Clayton. — That  is  my  business. 

Mrs.  C. — And  everybody  knows,  toa> 
that  it  is  contrary  to  my  wishes.  Had  I 
my  way,  there  would  be  nothing  of  that 
kind  about  the  house,  and  each  member  of 
the  family  would  be  the  possessor  of  a 
pledge-card. 

Clara.— Why,  mamma,  some  of  us  have 
cards.  Give  us  credit.  You  have  only 
father  and  Eddie  to  sign  it  now. 

Edward. — When  father  signs  one,  I  will 
do  likewise. 

Mr.  C. — You  cannot  get  around  it  thai 
way,  my  boy.    If  you  want  to  become  a 


SIGNING   THE  PLEDGE, 


CHARACTERS. 


Mr.  Henry  Clayton, 
Mrs.  Minnie  Clayton 
Edward,  "] 
Walter, 
Clara, 
Mary. 


)■  Clayton's  children. 


Mr.  Blake,  a  saloonkeeper. 
Mrs.  Blake. 


■  I 


Lizzie 
Helen 

Bridget,  the  maid 


Blake's  danghte 


SIGNING  THE  PLEDGE. 


290 

temperance  man,  don't  wait  upon  me.  If 
there  is  any  danger  of  jour  becoming  a  sot, 
vou  had  better  join  the  cold-water  army. 

Mrs.  C. — I  do  love  the  cause  of  temper- 
ance, and  would  like  to  work  for  it,  but  it 
has  thrown  quite  a  damper  upon  my  ardor, 
when  I  think  that  husband  and  son  are  on 
the  opposite  side,  and  we  are  a  divided 
house.  And  I  think,  father,  you  had  bet- 
ter take  a  step  forward  now,  as  Edward  has 
-said  he  would  follow.  Won't  you  do  so  ? 
Come,  I  have  some  cards. 

Mr.  C. — Never  will  I  sign  away  my  free- 
dom in  such  a  way  as  that.  I  am  all  right ; 
whenever  I  see  that  there  is  any  danger  of 
my  becoming  a  drunkard,  I  will  quit.  But 
because  a  man  holds  that  he  has  the  privi- 
lege of  taking  a  social  glass  when  he  wishes, 
I  do  not  see  the  use  of  the  women,  and  a 
lew  reformed  men,  constantly  interfering ; 
and  in  plain  words,  I  don't  think  its  any  of 
their  business. 

Mary. — Mamma,  may  I  get  my  card  ? 

Mrs.  C. — Yes,  child;  show  it  to  your  father. 

Edward.— 1  agree  with  you,  father. 
Some  of  them  are  always  around  where  they 
have  no  business,  for  no  other  purpose  than 
to  watch  others. 

Mary  (who  has  crossed  the  room  to  a 
table,  got  card,  and  is  returning). — Here  it 
is.  Oh,  papa,  put  your  name  under  mine, 
and  it  will  be  yours  and  mine.  Please  do, 
won't  you  ?  One  day,  at  Sabbath-school,  our 
Ilesson  was  about  wine,  and  the  minister  said 
ilt  meant  ale  and  beer,  too.  There  was  a 
picture  of  a  glass  that  men  drink  wine  out 
of  ;  it  wasn't  like  ours,  for  there  was  a  snake 
in  the  bottom  of  it,  and  they  said  some- 
thing about  not  looking  at  the  wine  when 
it  is  red.  Is  that  the  kind  you  drink,  papa  ? 
Will  the  snake  bite  you  ? 

Mr.  C  —  Nonsense,  child !  you  had  bet- 
ter be  at  home,  playing,  than  at  such  a  place 


as  that.  (Taking  a  bottle  from  sideboard}) 
Here,  you  taste  it,  and  see  whether  there  is 
anything  that  will  hurt  you  about  it ;  see,  I 
am  going  to  take  some. 

Mary. — Please  don't  papa.  I  wouldn't 
take  it  for  the  world.  They  say  at  Sunday- 
school  that  it  kills  and  murders  and  makes 
papas  hurt  little  children.  Will  it  make 
you  hurt  me  ? 

Mr.  C.  (replacing  bottle?) — I  wouldn't 
hurt  you  for  the  world,  Mary. 

Mary. — Then  you  won't  drink  any  more 
wine.  Mamma ,  if  papa  puts  his  name  here, 
will  it  keep  the  snake  from  biting  him  ? 

Mrs.  C. — Yes,  yes,  dear  child ;  get  him  to 
write  his  name,  and  Edward,  too. 

Edward. — I  am  going  down  street. 

W xlter. — Stay,  Ed,  and  sign  Mary's  card. 

Clara. — Do,  Eddie. 

Edward. — I'll  sign  after  father  does. 

(Exit  Edward.) 

Mary. — Will  you  write  your  name,  papa? 

Mr.  C. — Not  now.  I  must  go.  I  have 
an  engagement  down  town.  I  can't  write 
my  name  there,  Mary  ;  never  ask  me  again. 
Mrs.  Clayton,  I  hope  you  will  see  that  this 
scene  is  not  repeated  ;  keep  her  home  from 
Sunday-school.  The  idea  of  such  stuff  as 
that  in  a  child's  head  !  A  pretty  place  it 
must  be,  where  they  teach  a  child  to  de- 
spise its  father  ! 

Clara. — Not  the  father  ;  only  the  sin. 

Mr.  C. — Well,  she  will  not  go  any  more. 

Mrs.  C. — I  couldn't  deprive  her  of  such 
excellent  instruction.  I'm  only  sorry  that 
the  work  of  instilling  temperance  into  chil- 
dren in  such  a  way  that  it  becomes  a  part  of 
their  nature,  was  not  commenced  years 
ago.  This  scene  would  not  then  have  oc- 
curred. 

Mr.  C. — I  do  not  think  your  course  a 
very  wise  one.    i  ou  are  teaching  my  child 


SIGNING  THE  PLEDGE. 


291 


to  disobey  me, — some  more  of  those  princi- 
ples. From  such  religion  deliver  me.  Train 
them  on,  and  when  they  utterly  despise  me, 
I  suppose  you  will  be  pleased !  Get  away ! 
I  am  going  where  things  are  more  pleasant! 
{Exit  Mr.  C.) 

Clara. — Oh,  mamma ;  what  will  we  do ! 
Every  time  we  talk  to  papa  about  temper- 
ance he  gets  angry. 

Walter. — Oh,  dear!  I  wish  he  would 
sign  and  let  drink  alone.  I  heard  some 
men  talking, — they  didn't  know  me, — and 
they  said  it  was  a  great  pity  of  Henry  Clay- 
ton. He  was  going  down  as  fast  as  he 
could.  He  was  neglecting  his  business,  and 
it  would  soon  pass  into  other  hands.  Is  it 
true,  mamma  ? 

Mrs.  0. — Never  mind  now.  You  chil- 
dren must  improve  every  opportunity.  God 
only  knows  what  there  is  in  store  for  us. 

Clara. — Well,  if  Eddie  would  only  sign  ! 

Mrs.  C. — We  will  hope  for  the  best. 
"  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long ! " 

Mary. — Will  God  hear  a  little  girl  pray? 

Mrs.  C. — Always.  {Exit  Mary.)  My 
dear  child,  she  is  going  to  pray  for  her 
father.    Children,  you  must  all  do  likewise. 

SCENE  II. 

ftoom  in  the  Clayton  home  after  a  few  years.  All 
poorly  clad.   Mrs.  Clayton  discovered. 

Mrs.  C. — Oh,  how  things  have  changed ! 
Our  home  gone ;  clothes  worn  out,  and  no 
way  of  getting  others.  It  takes  all  the 
children  make  to  buy  food.  Father  gets 
money  from  them  whenever  he  can,  and 
sometimes  takes  what  I  have.  How  he  has 
changed !  He  used  to  be  so  kind,  and 
Mary  was  his  idol ;  now  we  hear  nothing 
but  cross  words,  and  this  from  him  who 
promised  to  love  and  cherish !  Sometimes 
I  think  such  thoughts  will  drive  me  mad ; 
but  I  must  bear  up  for  the  sake  of  my  chil- 


dren. I  have  no  fear  for  any  but  Edward, 
for  the  rest  are  Christians ;  but  poor,  way- 
ward Edward, — going  just  like  his  father. 
Every  day  I  expect  to  hear  of  his  discharge. 
Clara  is  with  a  very  nice  family,  and  what 
little  the  dear  girl  can  earn  she  gives  to  me. 
She  always  looks  tired ;  sewing  is  hard  on 
her.  Poor,  sensitive  Walter!  he  feels  his 
condition  so  much.  Well,  children,  you 
will  have  your  reward  for  your  "  patience 
in  tribulation."  But  some  one  is  coming. 
{Enter  Mary.) 
Mary. — I  am  so  tired  and  hungry ;  will 
supper  soon  be  ready  ?  I  wish  we  had  lots 
to  eat,  as  we  used  to  have,  and  clothes  to 
wear  that  were  not  in  so  many  pieces.  If 
papa  would  only  take  the  pledge,  and  sign 
my  card. 

{Enter  Edward.) 

Mrs.  C. — How  does  it  come  that  you  are 
home  from  work  so  soon,  Edward  ? 
Edward. — 1  left. 
Mrs.  6r.— Why? 

Edward. — They  gave  me  permission, — 
said  they  didn't  want  me  any  more. 

Mrs.  C. — Has  it  come  to  this?  What 
will  we  do !  Oh,  Edward,  had  you  listened 
to  me,  what  a  comfort  you  might  have  been 
to  me  now ! 

Edward. — Don't  go  to  preaching,  mother. 
I  don't  want  to  listen  ;  I  ain't  in  a  humor 
for  it! 

{Exit  Mrs.  Clayton  weeping.  Enter  Clara.) 

Clara. — How  does  it  come  you  are  home, 
Eddie ;  are  you  sick  ? 

Edward. — No.  I  am  home,  that  is  all, 
and  nobody's  business  either ! 

Clara. — I  did  not  intend  to  make  you 
angry. 

Mary. — He  has  quit  working  for  Mr. 
Cole  ;  that's  what  he  told  mamma,  and  she 
feels  so  badly. 


292 


SIGNING  THE  PLEDGE. 


Edward. — She  needn't  worry  herself. 

Clara. — Don't  talk  so  about  mother. 

Edward. — Now,  Miss  Clara,  just  keep 
your  advice  to  yourself,  will  you  ?  when  I 
want  it  I  will  ask  for  it ! 

{Enter  Walter) 

Walter. — Clara,  what's  the  matter  % 
Mary. — Eddie  hasn't  any  place  to  work ; 

where  will  mamma  get  bread  now,  "Walter  ? 
Walter. — We  will  try  and  take  care  of 

mother.    What's  the  matter,  Ed  ? 

Edward. — What  do  you  see  the  matter  ? 

{Enter  Mr.  Clayton) 

Mr.  C. — How  did  you  get  home  so  early  ? 
Edward  ? 

Edward. — I'm  like  you,  loafing.  Mother 
and  the  children  can  take  care  of  me,  as 
they  do  of  you. 

Mr.  C. — Well,  you'll  have  slim  fare.  I 
suppose  you  have  been  drinking.  Nothing 
more  than  I  expected  though. 

Edward. — Look  here,  father,  don't  you 
say  anything !  If  you  had  done  your  duty, 
I  would  not  have  been  what  I  am  to-day ! 
Who  taught  me  to  drink  ?  Who  told  me  it 
wouldn't  hurt  me,  and  by  his  actions  taught 
me  to  condemn  the  temperance  movement  ? 
You  did  !  and  now  blame  me !  This  drink 
has  made  a  demon  of  me  !  All  natural  af- 
fections are  completely  burnt  out  {enter 
Mrs.  C.)  ;  and  now  see  what  I  am,  and  you, 
too !  You  can  look  as  fierce  as  you  please, 
but  you  had  better  not  touch  me !  {Mr.  C. 
starts  towards  him.)  Hands  off,  sir!  I'll 
leave  when  I  am  ready !  You  are  respon- 
sible for  my  ruin,  and  now  want  to  turn  me 
off !  You  laughed  at  mother's  religion,  but 
she  loves  me  yet !  {Exit  Edward.) 

Mrs.  C. — Oh,  my  child!  have  I  not 
drank  the  bitter  cup  .to  the  dregs !  What 
will  be  the  end  of  this!    Husband,  do 


see  your  folly,  and  reform  before  we  are  all 
crushed  with  sorrow ! 

Mr.  B. — No  preaching;  get  some  supper! 
Hurry  up ! 

SCENE  lit 
Mr.  Blake's  saloon.    Mr.  Blake  and  Mr.  Clayton 
discovered. 

Mr.  B. — Hen.  Clayton,  your  wife  is  com- 
ing ;  get  out  as  soon  as  you  can.  I  don't 
want  her  to  find  you  here  ;  come,  hurry  ! 

Mr.  B. — 1  used  to  be  Mr.  Clayton,  when 
I  had  money. 

Mr.  B. — Get  out  by  the  back  door 
quickly ! 

{Mr.  B.  goes  out,  back.  Enter  Mrs.  C.) 
Mrs.  C. — Mr.  Blake,  is  my  husband  here? 
Mr.  B. — What  do  I  know  about  your 

husband  ? 

Mrs.  C. — I  know  he  frequents  this  place, 
and  I  would  like  to  find  him  ;  I  want  him 
to  spend  the  evening  with  me ;  it  is  the 
anniversary  of  our  marriage. 

Mr.  B. — I  should  think  you  would  have 
a  more  pleasant  evening  without  him, 

Mrs.  C. — He  is  my  husband. 

Mr.  B. — And  a  fine  specimen  of  human- 
ity he  is,  too.  You  will  not  find  him  here. 
We  keep  a  respectable  place.  We  would 
not  allow  him  to  loaf  here 

Mrs.  C. — He  does  come  here  sometimes, 
— ah,  very  often,  does  he  not  ? 

Mr.  B. — He  used  to  come,  but  now  he 
goes  to  places  where  they  sell  to  those  of 
known  intemperate  habits.  We  are  law- 
abiding,  and  do  not  give  to  them  already 
drunk. 

Mrs.  C — Then  the  business  of  your  estab- 
lishment is  to  make  drunkards,  and  turn 
them  over  to  others,  is  it  ? 

Mr.  B. — I  won't  allow  such  talk  here, 
madam,  and  the  sooner  you  leave,  the  better 
it  will  be  for  you !  I  shall  be  happy  to  say 
good  evening,  Mrs.  Clayton. 


m  THE  WONDER  STORY. 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF  TBt 
UBiYEHilTIf  OF  ILUHQiS 


siGJsrusra  the  pledge. 


295 


Mrs.  C. — Stay  a  moment.  You  admit 
that  my  husband  formerly  came  here,  but 
now  he  cannot  come  because  he  is  so  low. 
Pray,  what  is  the  cause  of  the  change  ? 

Mr.  B. — I  do  not  know.  It  does  not 
concern  me,  I'm  sure. 

Mrs.  C% — Yes,  it  does  concern  you. 
You  have  helped  to  bring  on  this  great  cal- 
amity. A  few  years  ago  we  were  a  happy 
family, — a  good  home,  plenty  to  eat  and 
wear;  what  are  we  today!  My  children 
scattered  ;  my  husband  and  myself  outcasts; 
my  eldest  boy  a  wanderer.  t  I  know  not 
where  he  is,  and  the  cause  I  lay  at  your 
door.  You  allured  and  tempted, — it  is 
your  business  to  tempt ;  and  they  fell.  I 
will  not  curse  you.  There  will  be  a  day  of 
reckoning.  "Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will 
repay,  saith  the  Lord.''  May  He  forgive ; 
I  almost  fear  1  cannot. 

SCENE  IV. 

Room  in  the  Blake  home.    Mrs.  Blake,  Lizzie  and 
Helen  doing  fancy  work.   Enter  Bridget. 

Bridget. — A  lady,  mum.  Shall  I'show 
her  up  ? 

Mrs.  Blake. — Who  is  it,  Bridget  ? 

Bridget. — Sure  I  don't  know.  Maybe 
she  hain't  got  no  name.  She's  just  dressed 
in  a  caliker  not  so  good  as  my  own,  mum; 
she  said  she  would  like  for  to  see  the  ladies. 

Mrs.  Blake. — Well,  show  her  in.  {Exit 
Bridget.) 

Lizzie— How  foolish,  ma;  you  don't 
know  who  it  is.    Maybe  she's  a  gipsy. 

Helen. — Somebody  begging  I  should 
think  from  the  description. 

(Enter  Mrs.  Clayton?) 
Mrs.    C. — Good   afternoon,  ladies ;  I 
think  you  do  not  know  me.    I  used  to 
know  you  Mrs.  Blake ;  my  name  was  Min- 
nie Wayne. 


Mrs.  B. — Minnie  Wayne!  It  can't  be 
possible !  she  was  such  a  bright,  joyous,, 
happy  creature,  so  unlike  you.  No  such 
look  of  distress  could  ever  be  made  upon 
Minnie's  face. 

Mrs,  C. — Time  makes  great  changes.  I 
am  now  Mrs.  Clayton.  I  have  talked  with 
your  husband,  and  now  want  a  few  words 
with  you.  I  see  you  are  pleasantly  situ- 
ated, have  everything  that  you  could  de- 
sire, but  your  comforts  have  cost  me  dearly. 

Mrs.  B. — What  do  you  mean,  woman  ? 
We  have  nothing  of  yours. 

Mrs.  C. — I  mean  that  the  business  your 
husband  is  in,  together  with  the  temptation 
of  his  place,  has  taken  everything  from  us, 
— home,  reputation,  everything  ;  and  while 
you  have  plenty,  we  are  in  great  need 

Mrs.  B. — I  presume  that  you  mean  that 
you  want  some  provision  and  clothes  from 
me.  Well,  if  that  is  all,  I  will  have  Bridget 
fill  a  basket  for  you,  and  give  you  some 
clothes.  I  guess  we  have  some  we  do  not 
need.    Lizzie,  ring  for  Bridget. 

Mrs.  C. — Don't,  Mrs.  Blake  ;  I  am  not 
begging, — that  is,  not  for  bread  or  clothes  ; 
but  I  am  begging,  oh,  so  earnestly  beggings 
that  you  wTill  try  and  have  your  husband: 
stop  his  dreadful  business  before  he  ruins 
any  more  families,  or  kills  my  loved  ones 
body  and  soul.  If  you  will  not  do  that,  at 
least  persuade  him  to  keep  it  from  my  hus- 
band. You  were  kind  and  good  at  school  ; 
won't  you  do  something  now  for  fallen 
humanity  ?  Your  daughters  will  help  you^, 
thousands  will  bless  you,  and  God  will  re- 
ward you.  Oh,  may  I  hope  that  your  influ- 
ence will  be  for  good  ? 

Lizzie. — Well,  ma,  I  think  I  would  send 
her  away.  I  think  pa  can  attend  to  his 
own  business. 

Mrs.  B. — I  make  no  rash  promises^ 
madam.    As  my  daughter  has  said,  Mr. 


296 


SIGNING  THE  PLEDGE. 


Blake  is  capable  of  attending  to  his  own 
affairs.  I  will  have  Bridget  show  you  the 
door. 

Helen. — Don't  call  Bridget ;  I  will  show 
this  lady  out,  and  promise  to  do  what  I  can 
for  her  family.  {Exit  Helen  and  Mrs, 
Vlayton.) 

Lizzie. — Just  like  Helen, — she  is  so  very 
pious.  If  pa  would  do  what  she  wishes 
him  to,  I  am  sorry  for  all  the  clothes  we 
would  have. 

{Enter  Helen.) 

Helen. — Mother,  is  it  not  as  this  woman 
says  ?  Are  we  not  living  at  our  ease,  while 
the  business  which  furnishes  the  money  is 
breaking  hearts,  destroying  homes,  and  fill- 
ing drunkards'  graves  ?  I  will  not  be  a 
party  to  such  work  any  longer.  Hence- 
forth I  am  with  the  temperance  people. 
{Exit  Helen.) 

Lizzie. — What  foolishness  !  She's  crazy  ! 

Mrs.  B. — Yes,  but  I  fear  she  will  do  as 
sfab  says! 

SCENE  V. 

Room  in  the  Clayton  home.    Mrs.  Clayton  reclin- 
ing in  chair,  Clara  in  attendance. 

Mrs.  C.  {feebly). — Clara,  when  was  your 
father  home  last  ? 

Clara. — Not  since  day  before  yesterday. 
He  was  so  much  as  he  used  to  be,  mamma; 
bo  careful  and  attentive  to  you  while  you 
were  unconscious,  and  watched  carefully 
ftintil  one  of  those  terrible  spells  came  on ; 
then  he  left,  and  I  have  not  seen  him  since. 
I  am  so  uneasy.  Mamma,  through  all  these 
long  and  weary  years,  hasn't  your  faith  in 
God  ever  wavered  % 

Mrs.  C. — Never  ;  my  prayers  will  be  an- 
swered. It  may  not  be  while  I  am  in  the 
body,  but  I  think  you  will  live  to  see  them 
answered. 

Clara. — I  hope  so,  but  sometimes  I  am 
tempted  to  doubt  it. 


Mrs.  (7.— Where  is  Mary  ? 

Clara. — She  is  at  the  temperance  meet- 
ing, but  will  soon  be  home  now. 

Mrs.  C. — When  did  you  hear  from  Wal- 
ter? 

Clara. — Not  since  before  you  became 
sick.  I  presume  he  has  not  had  time  to 
answer.  There  comes  Mary.  What  a  noise 
she  is  making. 

{Enter  Mary.) 

Mary. — O  mamma  !  Clara  !  look  at  my 
card, — mine  and  papa's !  mine  and  papa's ! 
See  the  name  !  papa's  name  is  under  mine ! 
I  couldn't  wait  until  they  were  ready.  I 
hurried  on  to  tell  you. 

Mrs.  C.  {talcing  card) — Thank  God ! 

{Enter  Mr.  Clayton?) 

Mary. — Here's  your  dear  papa — sober— v 
our  own  papa  !  O  mamma,  aren't  we  glad  ? 
Clara,  you  ought  to  have  been  at  the  tem- 
perance meeting.  Helen  Blake  brought 
papa  to  the  desk.  {Enter  Helen  Blake.) 
Here  she  is  ;  come  and  see  mamma,  Helen. 
Ah,  but  you  are  a  good  girl !  I  wouldn't 
let  papa  sign  any  other  card  until  he  signed 
mine.  I  have  kept  it  for  a  long,  long 
while.    Mine  and  papa's !  mine  and  papa's! 

Clara, — Be  quiet,  Mary  ;  there  is  some 
one  coming.  {Enter  Walter)  Walter! 
but  we  are  glad  to  see  you ;  papa  has  signed 
the  pledge  !  he —  Who  is  that  ?  {Enter 
Edward.)  Edward  !  Mamma,  here  is  Ed- 
ward ! 

Edward. — Yes,  I  have  my  card,  too,  \ 
mother.    Father,  forgive  your  prodigal ! 

Mrs.  C. — Once  more  a  united  family; 
and  may  these  pledges,  with  all  that  have 
been  signed  in  our  city,  be  faithfully  kept, 
"  God  helping  us !  " 

{All  unite  in  singing  a  temperance  song,  as 
curiam  falls.) 


THE  Mu  >  TRIMONIAL  AD  VER  TISEMENT. 


THE   MATRIMONIAL  ADVERTISEMENT. 


CHARACTERS 

Mary  Cole.  Grandmother  Cole,  who  is  very  deaf. 

Jack  Cole.  Aunt  Martha  Gordon. 
Cyrus  Gordon. 


SCENE  I. 

The  sitting-room  of  the  Cole  family.  Mary  read- 
ing a  newspaper;  Grandmother  Cole  knitting; 
Aunt  Martha  crocheting;  Jack  playing  with 
the  balls  in  Aunt  Martha's  work-basket. 

Mary  Cole. — Oh,  Aunt  Martha !  only 
hear  this !  it's  in  the  Chronicle.  What  a 
splendid  chance  !  I  declare,  I've  a  great 
mind  to  answer  it  myself ! 

A  unt  M. — What  have  you  got  hold  of 
now  ?  You're  al'ays  a-makin'  some  power- 
ful diskivery  somewheres.  What  now  ? 
Something  to  turn  gray  eyes  black,  and  blue 
eyes  gray? 

Mary. — No  ;  it's  a  matrimonial  adver- 
tisement. What  a  splendid  fellow  this  "  C. 
G."  must  be ! 

Aunt  M. — Oh,  pshaw !  A  body  must  be 
dreadfully  put  to  it,  to  advertise  for  a  part- 
ner in  the  newspapers.  Thank  goodness  ! 
I  never  got  in  such  a  strait  as  that  'ere. 
The  Lord  hez  marcyfully  kept  me  thus  fur 
from  havin'  any  dealin's  with  the  male  sect, 
and  I  trust  I  will  be  presarved  to  the  end. 

Jack. — Didn't  you  ever  have  an  offer, 
Aunt  Mattie  ? 

Aunt  M.  (indignantly.)  —  Why,  Jack 
Cole !  What  an  idee !  I've  had  more 
chances  to  change  my  condition  than  you've 
got  fingers  and  toes.  But  I  refused  'em  all. 
A  single  life  is  the  only  way  to  be  happy. 
But  it  did  kinder  hurt  my  feelin's  to  send 


some  of  my  sparks  adrift, — they  took  it  so 
hard.  There  was  Colonel  Turner,  he  lost 
his  wife  in  June,  and  the  last  of  August  he 
came  over  to  our  'ouse,  and  I  give  him  to 
understand  that  he  needn't  trouble  hisself, 
and  he  felt  so  mad  that  he  went  rite  off  and 
married  the  Widder  Hopkins. 

Jack. — Poor  fellow  !  How  he  must  have 
felt !  And  Aunt  Mattie,  I  noticed  that 
Deacon  Goodrich  looks  at  you  a  good  deal 
in  meeting,  since  you've  got  that  pink 
feather.  What  if  he  should  want  you  to  be 
a  mother  to  his  ten  little  ones  ? 

Aunt  M.  (simpering.) — Law,  Jack  Cole ! 
What  a  dreadful  boy  you  be !  (Pinches 
his  ear.)  The  deacon  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing !  But  if  it  should  please  Provi- 
dence to  appoint  to  me  such  a  fate,  I  should 
try  and  be  resigned. 

Granny  C. — Resigned  !  Who's  re- 
signed ?  Not  the  President,  has  he  ?  Well, 
I  don't  blame  him.  I'd  resign,  too,  if  I 
was  into  his  place.  Nothin'  spiles  a  man's 
character  so  quick  as  bein'  President  or 
Congress.  Yer  gran'father  got  in  justice  of 
the  peace  once,  and  he  resigned  afore  he 
was  elected.  Sed  he  didn't  want  his  repe- 
tition spiled. 

Jack. — Three  cheers  for  Gran'father 
Cole! 

Granny  C. — Cheers  ?  What's  the  mat- 
ter with  the  cheers  now  ?    Yer  father  had 


298 


THE  MATRIMONIAL  AD  VERT  I  CEMENT. 


them  bottomed  last  year,  and  this  year  they 
were  new  painted.  What's  to  pay  with 
'em  now  ? 

Mary  {impatiently.) — Do  listen  to  this 
advertisement ! 

Aunt  M. — Mary  Cole,  I'm  sorry  your 
head  is  so  turned  with  the  vanities  of  this 
world.  Advertisin'  for  a  pardner  in  that 
way  is  wicked.    I  hadn't  orter  listen  to  it. 

Mary. — Oh,  it  won't  hurt  you  a  bit, 
auntie.  {Reads:)  "A  gentleman  of  about 
forty,  very  fine  looking ;  tall,  slender,  and 
fair-haired,  with  very  expressive  eyes,  and 
side  whiskers,  and  some  property,  wishes 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a  young  lady 
with  similar  qualifications  " 

Jack. — A  lady  with  expressive  eyes  and 
side  whiskers  

Mary.  —  Do  keep  quiet,  Jack  Cole  ! 
{Reads.)  "  With  similar  qualifications  as 
to  good  looks  and  amiable  temper,  with  a 
view  to  matrimony.  Address,  with  stamp 
to  pay  return  postage,  C.  G.,  Scrubtown; 
stating  when  and  where  an  interview  may 
be  had."  There*!  what  do  you  think  of 
that? 

Jack. — Deacon  Goodrich  to  a  T.  "  C. 
G."  stands  for  Calvin  Goodrich. 

Aunt  M. — The  land  of  goodness  !  Dea- 
con Goodrich,  indeed !  a  pillar  of  the 
church !  advertisin'  for  a  wife !  no,  no, 
Jack  ;  it  can't  be  him  !  He'd  never  stoop 
so  low  ! 

Jacks — But  if  all  the  women  are  as  hard- 
hearted as  you  are,  and  the  poor  man  needs 
a  wife.    Think  of  his  ten  little  olive  plants  ! 

Granny  C. — Plants?  Cabbage  plants? 
'Taint  time  to  set  'em  out  yet.  Fust  of 
August  is  plenty  airly  enuff  for  winter. 
Cabbages  never  begin  to  head  till  the  nights 
come  cold. 

Jack. — Poor  Mr.  C.  G. !   Why  don't  you 


answer  it,  Aun  t  Mattie ;  and  tell  him  you'll 
darn  his  stocki  lgs  for  him,  and  comb  that 
fair  hair  of  his  , 

Aunt  M. — Jack  Cole  !  if  you  don't  hold 
your  tongue,  I'll  comb  your  hair  for  you  in 
a  way  you  won't  like.  Me  answerin'  one 
of  them  low  advertisements !  Me,  indeed ! 
I  haint  so  eager  to  get  married  as  some  folks 
I  know.  Brother  Cyrus  and  I  have  lived 
all  our  lives  in  maiden  meditation,  fancy 
free, — the  only  sensible  ones  of  the  family 
of  twelve  children;  and  it's  my  idee  we 
will  continner  on  in  that  way. 

Mary. — Why,  don't  you  believe  that 
Uncle  Cyrus  would  get  married  if  he  could? 

Aunt  M.— Your  Uncle  Cyrus  !  I  tell 
you,  Mary  Cole,  he  wouldn't  marry  the  best 
woman  that  ever  trod  !  I've  heern  him  say 
so  a  hundred  times. 

Mary. — Won't  you  answer  this  adver- 
tisement, auntie  ?  I'll  give  you  a  sheet  of 
my  gilt-edged  note-paper  if  you  will. 

Aunt  M.  {furiously.) — If  you  weren't  so 
big,  Mary  Jane  Cole,  I'd  spank  you  sound- 
ly !  I  vow  I  would !  Me  answer  it,  in- 
deed !  {Leaves  the  room  in  great  indigna- 
tion.) 

Mary. — Look  here,  Jack;  what'll  you 
bet  she  won't  answer  that  notice  ? 

Jack. — Nonsense  !  Wouldn't  she  blaze 
if  she  heard  you  ? 

Mary. — I'll  wager  my  new  curled  water- 
fall against  your  ruby  pin  that  Aunt  Mattie 
replies  to  Mr.  "  C.  G."  to-night. 

Jack. — Done !  I'll  wear  a  curled  water- 
fall to-moirow. 

Mary. — No,  sir !  But  I  shall  wear  a 
ruby  pin.  Jack,  who  do  you  think  "0,  G." 
is? 

Jack. — Really,  I  do  not  know  ;  do  you  ? 
Ah !  I  know  you  do,  by  that  look  in  your 
eyes.    Tell  me,  that's  a  darling. 


THE  MATRIMONIAL  AD  VERTISEMENT. 


Mary. — Not  I.  1  don't  expose  secrets 
to  a  fellow  who  tells  them  all  over  town. 
Besides,  it  would  spoil  the  fun. 

Jack. — Mary,  you  are  the  dearest  little 
sister  in  the  world !  Tell  me,  please,  {faking 
her  hand.) 

Mary. — You  don't  get  them  out  of  me. 
Take  care,  now.  Let  go  my  hands.  I'm 
going  up  stairs  to  keep  an  eye  on  Aunt 
Mattie.  She's  gone  up  now  to  write  an  an- 
swer to  "  C.  G."  And  if  there's  any  fun 
by-and-by,  Jack,  if  you're  a  good  boy  you 
shall  be  there  to  see. 

Granny  C. — To  sea?  Going  to  sea? 
Why  Jack  Cole  !  you  haint  twenty-one  yet 
and  the  sea's  a  dreadful  place  !  There's  a 
sarpint  lives  in  it  as  big  as  the  Scrnbtown 
meetin'-us5,  and  whales  that  swallow  folks 
alive,  clothes  and  all !  I  read  about  one  in 
a  book  a  great  while  ago  that  swallered  a 
man  of  the  name  of  Jonah,  and  he  didn't 
set  well  on  the  critter's  stummuck,  and  up 
he  come,  lively  as  ever. 

{Curtain  falls.) 
SCENE  II. 

The  garden  of  a  deserted  house  in  the  vicinity  of 
Mr.  Cole's.  Mary  leading  Jack  cautiously  along 
a  shaded  path. 

Mary. — There  ;  we'll  squat  down  behind 
this  lilac  bush.  It's  nearly  the  appointed 
hour.  I  heard  Aunt  Mattie  soliloquizing 
in  her  room  this  morning,  after  this  man- 
ner: "  At  eight  o'clock  this  night  I  go  to 
meet  my  destiny  !  In  the  deserted  garden, 
under  the  old  pear-tree.  How  very  roman- 
tic !  "    Hark  !  there  she  comes  ! 

Jack. — Well,  of  all  the  absurd  things 
that  ever  I  heard  tell  of!  Who  would  have 
believed  that  our  staid  old  maid  aunt  would 
have  answered  a  matrimonial  advertise- 
ment? 


299 

Mary. — Hush !  Jack,  if  you  make  a 
noise  and  spoil  the  fun  I'll  never  forgive 
you.    Keep  still  and  don't  fidget  so. 

Aunt  M.  {slowly  walking  down  the  path, 
soliloquizing.) — Eight  o'clock  !  It  struck 
just  as  I  started  out.  He  ought  to  be  here. 
Why  does  he  tarry  ?  If  he  ain't  punctual 
I'll  give  him  the  mitten  ;  I  swow  I  will ! 
Dear  gracious !  what  a  sitivation  to  be  in  ! 
Me,  at  my  time  of  life  !  though,  to  be  sure, 
I  haint  so  old  as — as  I  might  be.  The 
dew's  a-fallin',  and  I  shall  get  the  rheuma- 
tiz  in  these  thin  shoes,  if  he  don't  come 
quick.  What  if  Jack  and  Mary  should  get 
hold  of  this  ?  I  never  should  hear  the 
last  of  it !  never !  I  wouldn't  have  'em 
know  it  for  a  thousand  dollars  !  Goodness 
me !  What  if  it  should  be  the  deacon  ? 
Them  children  of  his'n  is  dreadful  young- 
sters ,  but,  the  Lord  helpin'  me,  I'd  try  to 
train  'em  up  in  the  way  they  should  go. 
Hark !  is  that  him  a-comin'  ?  No ;  it's  a 
toad  hoppin'  through  the  carrot  bed.  My 
soul  and  body  if  he  should  want  to  kiss  me  ! 
I'll  chew  a  clove  for  fear  he  should.  I 
wonder  if  it  would  be  properous  to  let  him? 
But  then,  I  s'pose  if  it's  the  deacon  I 
couldn't  help  myself.  He's  an  awful  dee- 
tarmined  man  ;  and  if  I  couldn't  help  it  I 
shouldn't  be  to  blame.  Deary  me  ;  how  I 
trimble  !  There  he  comes  ;  I  hear  his  step  ! 
What  a  tall  man !  'Taint  the  deacon  I 
He's  got  a  shawl  on  !  Must  be  the  new 
school-master  ;  he  wears  a  shawl !  (A  man 
approaches.  Miss  Mattie  goes  up  to  him 
cautiously).    Is  this  Mr.  C.  G.? 

C.  G.—Yes,  it  is.    Is  this  Miss  M.  G? 

Aunt  M. — It  is.  Dear  sir,  I  hope  you 
won't  think  me  bold  and  unmaidenly  in 
coming  out  here  all  alone  in  the  dark  to 
meet  you  ? 

G.   G. — Never !    Ah,  the  happiness  of 


3°° 


THE  MATRIMONIAL 


AD  VERTISEMEJSTT. 


this  moment !  For  forty  years  I  have  been 
looking  for  thee !  {Puts  his  arm  around 
her.) 

Aunt  M. — Oh,  dear  me ;  don't,  don't ! 
my  dear  sir !  I  aint  used  to  it !  and  it  aint 
exactly  proper  out  here  in  this  old  garden  ! 
It's  a  dreadful  lonely  spot,  and  if  people 
should  see  us  they  might  talk ! 

0.  G.—Let  'em  talk !  They'll  talk  still 
more  when  you  and  I  are  married,  I  reckon. 
Lift  your  veil  and  let  me  see  your  sweet 
face. 

Aunt  M. — Yes,  if  you  will  remove  that 
hat  and  let  me  behold  your  countenance. 

C.  G. — Oh,  certainly.  Now,  then  ;  both 
together. 

{Miss  Mattie  throws  back  her  veil.  C.  G. 
removes  his  hat.  They  gaze  at  each  other  a 
moment  in  utter  silence.) 

Aunt  M. — Good  gracious  airth !  'tis 
Brother  Cyrus ! 

C.  G. — Jupiter  Amnion !  'tis  Sister 
Martha  ! 

Aunt  M. — Oh,  my  soul  and  body,  Cyrus 
Gordon  !  Who'd  ever  a-thought  of  you,  at 
your  time  of  life,  cuttin'  up  such  a  caper  as 
this  ?  You  old,  bald-headed,  gray- whis- 
kered man !  Forty  years  old !  My  gra- 
cious !    You  were  fifty-nine  last  July 

C.  G. — Well,  if  I  am,  you're  two  year 
older. 

Aunt  M. — Why  I  thought  sure  it  was 
Deacon  Brown  that  advertised.  C.  G. 
stands  for  Calvin  Goodrich. 

C.  G. — Yes ;  and  it  stands  for  Cyrus 


Gordon,  too.  And  Deacon  Goodrich  was 
married  last  night  to  Peggy  Jones. 

Aunt  M. — That  snub-nosed,  red-haired 
Peggy  Jones  !  He'd  ort  to  be  flayed  alive! 
Married  agin  !  and  his  wife  not  hardly  cold ! 
Oh,  the  deceitfulness  of  men !  Thank 
providence !  I  haint  tied  to  one  of  the 
abominable  sect ! 

C.  G. — Well,  Martha,  we're  both  in  the 
same  boat.  If  you  won't  tell  of  me,  I 
won't  of  you.  But  it's  a  terrible  disappoint- 
ment to  me,  for  I  sarting  thought  M.  G. 
meant  Marion  Giles  the  pretty  milliner. 

Aunt  M. — Humph!  What  an  old  goose! 
She  wouldn't  look  at'  you  !  I  heerd  her 
a-laflin'  at  your  swaller- tailed  coat,  when 
you  come  out  of  meetin'  last  Sunday.  But 
I'm  ready  to  keep  silence  if  you  will. 
Gracious  !  if  Jack  and  Mary  should  get 
wind  of  this,  shouldn't  we  have  to  take  it  ? 

C.  G.—  Hark !  what's  that  ? 

(  Voice  behind  the  lilac  bush  sings:) 

' '  Oh,  there's  many  a  bud  the  cold  frost  will  nip, 
And  there's  many  a  slip  'twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip." 

Aunt  M. — That's  Jack's  voice  !  Good- 
ness me  !  Let  us  scoot  for  home  !  {They 
start  off.) 

Jack  {laughing.) — Did  he  kiss  you  Aunt 
Mattie  ? 

Mary. — Did  you  see  her  sweet  face, 
Uncle  Cyrus? 

C.  Confound  you  both  !  If  I  had 
hold  of  ye  I'd  let  ye  know — 

{Curtain  falls.) 


TALKING  FLOWERS. 


TALKING  FLOWERS. 

Persons. — Twelve  little  girls  personating  the  flowers  ;  a  very  small  child  and  a  larger  girl  as  mother 
and  daughter;  and  a  group  of  very  little  boys  and  girls  as  Mosses  and  Ferns. 

Arrangement. — Place  the  children  in  a  semi-circle,  having  the  group  for  Mosses  and  Ferns  at  one  end. 
Let  the  two  tallest  personate  Sunflower  and  Dahlia;  let  Convolvulus  stand  by  Dahlia  with  her 
arms  twined  around  her.    Arrange  the  remainder  according  to  height. 

Decoration. — If  in  the  season  of  flowers,  let  each  have  a  wreath  and  boquet,  if  possible,  of  the  flower 
she  represents.. 


Child  {singing: — tune,  "Nellie  Bltf'). — 
Mother  dear,  mother  dear,  see  the  flowers 
smile  ! 

I  wish  I  could  their  voices  hear — come  lis- 
ten now,  a-while. 

Sweet  blossoms,  dear  blossoms,  sing,  oh, 
sing  to  me ! 

I'll  hark  to  you,  I'll  list  to  you,  to  hear 
your  melody. 

Mother  (singing).  — 
Hush,  my  love  !  hush,  my  love  !  listen,  dar- 
ling, now ! 

When  the  winds  the  blossoms  move,  they 

murmur  soft  and  low. 
Sweet  blossoms,  dear  blossoms,  sing,  oh, 

sing  to  me ! 
I'll  hark  to  you,  I'll  list  to  you,  to  hear 

your  melody. 

Flowers  {singing). — 
Gentle  child,  meek  and  mild,  listening  she 
stands ; 

Parted  are  her  rosy  lips,  and  clasped  her 
lily  handsv 

"  Sweet  blossoms,  dear  blossoms,  sing,"  she 

says,  "to  me!" 
Now  hark  to  us,  now  list  to  us,  to  hear  cur 

melody. 
Tulip  {recites  or  sings).  — 
I  am  a  Tulip  ;  my  dress  is  bright, 
It  glitters  like  gold  in  the  morning  light. 
I  know  I  am  brilliant,  and  rare,  and  gay. 


At  first  I  was  proud,  until,  one  day 
I  learned  that  I  was  not  half  so  sweet 
As  plain,  little  Mignonette,  down  by  my 
feet. 

Mignonette  {replies).  — 
Beautiful  Tulip,  the  hand  Divine 
Made  me  for  sweetness,  and  you  to  shine* 

Dahlia. — 
I  am  a  Dahlia,  with  heart  of  gold  ; 
The  radiant  hue  of  each  purple  fold 
Of  my  dress  is  like  velvet  to  deck  a  queen. 
Fm  the  happiest  Dahlia  that  ever  was  seen! 
But  more  than  my  beauty,  or  pride,  or 
power, 

Love  I  this  gentle  Convolvulus  flower 
That  trustfully  grasps  my  strong,  high  stems 
And  decks  my  brow  like  a  diadem. 

Convolvulus.  — 
And  I  love  you,  for  when  I  was  young, 
With  feeble  tendrils  I  faintly  clung 
To  a  Sunflower  bold,  but  she  shook  me  aside; 
Then  you,  kind  Dahlia,  support  supplied. 

Sunflower.  — 
I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude  that  day  ; 
I  turned  to  the  sun,  and  you  stood  in  my 
way. 

Sensitive- Plant.     {The   very  smallest 
child). — 
I  am  the  little  Sensitive-Plant. 
I  would  like  to  say  more,  but — indeed,  I 
can't. 


302 


TALKING  FLOWERS, 


Blue-Eye.  — 
I  am  the  little  Blue- Eye  grass ; 
There  are  few  who  see  me,  as  on  they  pass ; 
But  I  can  look  up  with  my  little  blue  eye 
To  the  warm,  kind  sun  in  the  beautiful  sky ; 
And  I  never  am  chilled  when  the  cold 

winds  blow, 
Because  my  dear  home  is  so  sheltered  and 
low. 

Blue-Eye  will  teach  you,  in  accents  mild  : 
Learn  to  be  humble  and  lowly,  my  child. 

Violet — 
I  am  the  Yiolet,  and  I  dwell 
Under  the  shade  of  the  sweet  Heath-Bell. 
Early,  at  dawning,  it  rings  and  it  rings, 
To  waken  me,  ere  the  redbreast  sings. 
I  am  happy,  so  happy  the  livelong  day, 
Eor  I  love  in  my  lowly  home  to  stay, 
And  I  know  that  the  sunny  days  of  spring 
The  love  of  the  children  to  me  will  bring. 

Gentian. — 
I  am  the  Gentian,  with  fringe  of  blue, 
Upward  I  gaze  all  the  long  day  through, 
I  do  not  know  whence  the  flowers  all 

come, 

But  it  seems  to  me  the  blue  sky  is  my 
home. 

When  I  bloom,  the  winter  draws  nigh, 
And  Asters  and  Golden-rod  wither  and 
die ; 

And  leaves  are  falling  from  vine  and  tree ; — 
Does  it  make  you  sad  %    It  is  sad  to  me. 

Columbine. — 
I  am  the  Columbine,  and  I  keep 
Sweet  honey-drops  in  my  nectaries  deep. 
The  humming-bird  and  the  busy  bee 
Know  what  they  find  when  they  fly  to  me. 
I  teach  this  lesson:  That  free  from  sin 
You  keep  the  cells  of  the  soul  within, 
That  love's  sweet  honey  you  may  bestow 
On  all  who  about  you  come  and  go. 


Buttercup. — 
I'm  little  Buttercup,  shining  like  gold, 
With  a  smile  for  the  young,  and  a  smile  for 
the  old. 

I  grow  in  the  sunshine,  and  grow  in  the 
shade, 

I'm  the  cheeriest  flower  that  ever  was  made. 
When  the  little  ones  find  me  they  dance 

with  delight, 
As  they  fill  up  their  aprons  with  buttercups 

bright. 

"  Now,  who  loves  butter  V9  they  shouting 
begin, 

As  they  hold  me  up  under  each  lily-white 

chin. 
Sweetbrier — 
I  am  the  Sweetbrier,  and  I  grow 
By  the  wayside  hedge  where  the  children 

go. 

They  search  about  in  my  fragrant  home, 
And  they  say,  "  It  is  time,  for  the  buds 

have  come." 
But  I  keep  quite  still  till  some  gentle  child 
Parts  the  leaves  with  her  fingers  mild  ; 
Then  I  send  my  breath  of  fragrance  out, 
And  laugh  as  I  hear  the  joyous  shout : 
si  The  roses  have  come  !  the  roses  are  here  I 
I  will  carry  this  home  to  my  mother  dear  !** 

Mosses  and  Ferns  (in  concert?) — 
Little  Mosses  and  Ferns  are  we. 
We  dwell  in  the  forest,  glad  and  free  ; 
We  joyfully  drink  the  gentle  rain  ; 
We  smile  when  the  bright  sun  shines  again; 
Our  fragrant  thanks  to  the  setting  sun 
We  breathe,  when  each  happy  day  is  don^, 

Flowers,  Mosses,  and  Ferns  (singing?)— 
Little  child,  an  offering 
Of  our  fragrant  love  we  bring. 
God  has  made  us  fair  and  bright, 
For  your  pleasure  and  delight. 
From  the  garden,  field,  and  wooa8 
Sing,  oh,  sing,  the  Lord  is  good  ! 


Tift  USMtW 
Of  \nt 

mmm  w  Illinois 


UNDER  AN  UMBRELLA. 


Little  child,  a  flower  art  thou, 
In  the  dear  Lord's  garden,  now  ; 
Gentle  dews  of  heavenly  love 
Fall  upon  you  from  above. 
Sing  with  flowers  of  field  and  wood, 
Sing,  oh,  sing,  the  Lord  is  good ! 


Child,  Mother,  and  Flowers  {singing). 
Father  dear,  who  sends  the  flowers 
In  the  field,  the  wood,  the  bowers. 
Joyous  notes  of  sweetest  praise 
Unto  Thee  our  voices  raise. 
Sing  as  loving  spirits  should, — 
Sing,  oh,  sing,  the  Lord  is  good 


UNDEI?    AN  UMBRELLA. 


CHARACTERS. 


Miss  Cecilia  Truman,  a  lady  of  a  certain  age. 
Mr.  Algernon  Small,  a  middle-aged  gentleman. 


SCENE. 

Mr.  Small  enters  at  side,  his  trousers  rolled  up,  his 
coat-collar  standing;  he  carries  a  raised  um- 
brella well  down  over  his  face.  Miss  Truman 
enters  at  opposite  side,  her  gown  gathered  in 
one  hand,  her  other  hand  carrying  a  raised  par- 
asol which  she  holds  in  front  of  her. 


This  tantalizing  sudden 


Miss  Truman 
shower ! 

Mr.  Small. — This  beastly  rain  ! 

{They  advance  toward  each  other  until 
the  umbrella  collides  with  the  parasol,  and 
sends  it  flying  out  of  Miss  Truman's 
hand). 

Miss  T.—  Mercy  ! 

Mr.  S. — The  fellow  who  does  not  carry 
a  protector  from  the  rain  without  jabbing  it 
into  his  brother-mortals  should  be  sent  to 
the  antipodes,  where  he  might  take  lessons 
in  umbrella  guidance. 

Miss  T. — So  think  I.  In  the  meantime 
here  I  am  becoming  positively  drenched, 
and  my  parasol  a  hopeless  wreck.    I  shall 


assume  the  aspect  of  a  Naiad  in  a  very  few 
minutes — the  drops  are  already  trickling 
over  the  bridge  of  my  nose. 

Mr.  S.  {hearing  her  voice  throws  his  um- 
brella back  on  his  shoulder  and  sees  her), 

A  lady  ! 

Miss  T  {haughtily). — I  am  usually  so 
called.  Though  your  treatment  of  me 
might  argue  that  I  am  a  transparent  vapor 
which  impedes  no  atom.  * 

Mr.  &— Madam  

Miss  T. — Sir,  I  am  a  spinster ;  you  will 
address  me  as  plain  Miss. 

Mr.  /S. — Ah — ah — plain  Miss,  I  see  that 
I  have  put  you  out  by  my  awkwardness ;  I 
have,  I  fear,  been  the  means  of  destroying 
your  equilibrium. 

Miss  T.—My  equilibrium  Sir,  do  not 
presume  to  insult  me.  I  have  yet  to  find 
the  man  who  can  destroy  my  equilibrium. 
You  had  better  call  it  my  parasol. 

Mr.  S. — Pardon  me  once  more,  madam — 
that  is,  I  mean  to  say  plain  Miss. 


*  From  One  Hundred  Choice  Selections. 


UNDER  AN  UMBRELLA. 
 1  


306 

Miss  T.  (aJde).— Plain  Miss!  He  is 
very  literal. 

Mr.  S. — I  sincerely  regret  having 
wrenched  away  your  parasol.  I  see  it  lying 
there  in  the  mud  like  a  wilted  tulip.  It 
must  have  been  very  inadequate  as  a  pre- 
server from  the  elements,  at  any  rate.  If 
I  could  only  make  amends — if  I  might  offer 
you  a#share  of  my  umbrella. 

Miss  T. — I  would  die  first !  I  would 
stand  in  this  rain  and  melt  by  degrees, 
rather  than  accept  such  a  situation. 

Mr.  S. — Who  asked  you  to  accept  a  sit- 
uation ?  I  hope  my  umbrella  has  no  sug- 
gestions of  an  intelligence  office  about  it  ? 

Miss  T. — If  you  will  permit  the  rude- 
ness, I  should  say  not,  while  it  has  its  pres- 
ent means  of  support. 

Mr.  S. — Meaning  me.  (Asidg.)  She  is 
deprecating  the  strength  of  my  intellect. 
And  yet  despite  her  manner — nay,  because 
of  it,  there  is  something  quite  fascinating 
about  her.  I  admire  that  dignified  move- 
ment of  the  eyebrows,  like  arcs  of  an 
eclipsing  moon  seen  through  smoked  glass. 
(Aloud.)  Perhaps  I  have  been  not  quite 
aufait  in  the  expression  of  my  desire  to  be 
of  service  to  you — allow  me  to  offer  you  all 
my  umbrella.  I  shall  not  mind  the  rain. 
And  there  are  two  well-defined  rills  mean- 
dering down  your  cheeks. 
Miss  T. — Rills  ! — they  may  become  oceans 
before  I  would  accept  the  protection  of  the 
personal  property  of  any  man- — oceans,  sir, 
oceans ! 

Mr.  8.  (testily).— Stick  to  facts,  if  you 
please,  as  we  are  already  sticking  here  in 
the  mud.  Oceans,  indeed!  Those  rills 
may  become  rivers,  but  oceans,  never ! — 
unless  you  shall  prove  to  be  Lot's  wife 
after  her  retrograde  glance. 

Miss  T.  (aside). — Lot's  wife ! — do  I  look 


so  old  as  that  ?  (Aloud.)  I  beseech  you 
not  to  add  to  your  speech  any  further  evi- 
dences of  innate  brutality. 

Mr.  S. — Brutality  !  You  employ  strong 
terms.    I  am  but  endeavoring  to  be  polite. 

Miss  T. — If  your  idea  of  politeness  con- 
sists in  calling  unprotected  females  Lot's 
wives,  I  should  say  it  is  high  time  some  one 
had  written  a  new  book  of  etiquette  a  id 
given  me  the  privilege  to  subscribe  for  the 
first  number. 

Mr.  S.  (aside). — How  piquant !  This 
woman  is  that  rare  article,  a  feminine  wit. 
( Aloud.)  My  dear  lady,  I  merely  meant  to 
offer  an  utnbrella  and  not  an  insult — unless 
the  one  is  so  shabby  that  the  offer  of  it  par- 
takes of  the  nature  of  the  other.  I  have 
irrecoverably  spoiled  the  little  silken  awn- 
ing with  which,  you  canopied  your  head, 
and  I  would  repair  the  damages — not  of  the 
parasol,  that  is  past  mending,  is  irrecover- 
able, imcoverable — but  of  my  feelings  for 
causing  the  accident;  and  I  would  offer 
what  amends  I  may. 

Miss  T.  (considerably  softened).  —  You 
are  certainly  generous  ;  and  I  must  decline 
the  proffered  loan.  I  accept  no  favors  ex- 
cept from  my  own  sex — I  know  what  men 
are. 

Mr.  S.  (aside). — How  sage  her  education 
must  be.  (Aloud.)  But  you  are  standing 
in  the  rain,  dear  lady. 

Miss  T.  (aside). — He  calls  me  "  dear 
lady."  How  oddly  it  sounds.  No  one  has 
called  me  "  dear "  since  Algy's  time. 
(Aloud.)  I  am  standing  in  the  rain,  sir — 
dear  sir — because  you  will  not  step  aside 
and  allow  me  to  pass  by.  You  are  in  my 
path. 

Mr.  S.  (moving  aside). — A  thousand  par- 
dons !  (Miss  Truman  prepares  to  go  on.) 
Must  I  see  you  go  through  the  rain  ? 


UNDER  AN 
* 


UMBRELLA. 


Miss  T. — Certainly  not ,  close  your  eyes, 
and  the  hardship  will  be  overcome. 

Mr.  S.  (aside). — What  sparkling  repar- 
tee !  (Aloud.)  Besides,  your  bonnet  will 
be  spoiled. 

Miss  T.  (shrieking,  and  running  under 
the  umbrella). — My  bonnet !  It  came  from 
the  milliner's  only  this  morning,  and  I  felt 
that  I  must  go  out  for  a  promenade  as  soon 
as  I  tried  it  on.  And  to  think  that  this 
shower  should  spitefully  come  up!  I  shall 
accept  of  the  protection  afforded  by  your 
umbrella  only  so  long  as  it  takes  me  

Mr.  S. — To  reach  your  home? 

Miss  T. — Only  so  long  as  it  takes  me  to 
tie  my  handkerchief  over  my  bonnet  {tak- 
ing out  her  handkerchief  and  proceeding 
to  shroud  her  head-gear). 

Mr.  8.  (aside).-. — I  hajp.not  seen  a  woman 
do  that  since  Cissy  used  thus  to  protect  her 
finery  from  the  elements.  (Aloud.)  Lady, 
I  am  really  and  truly  going  your  way. 

Miss  T.  (her  bonnet  covered  with  her 
handkerchief). — But  I  am  not  so  sure  of 
that ;  you  don't  know  which  way  I  am  go- 
ing to  take. 

Mr.  S.  (aside). — Positively  an  acute  mind, 
(Aloud.)  You  are  going  the  right  way. 
(Aside.)  That's  a  guess  ;  she  may  take  the 
left. 

Miss  T.  (aside,  tremulously). — I  have 
been  abrupt ;  such  deference  has  not  been 
shown  me  since  Algy's  time.  (Aloud,  sad- 
ly.) I  trust,  sir,  that  I  am  going  the  right 
way.  I  am  a  harmless  enough  creature, 
who  has  few  in  the  world  to  care  for,  and 
(heatedly)  who  firmly  believes  in  the  perfidy 
of  your  sex,  having  good  reason  to  so  be- 
lieve. 

Mr.  S. — What  a  striking  coincidence !  I, 
too,  am  a  lonely  sort  of  fellow  who  has  few 
in  the  world  to  care  for  him  and  who — 


ah — has  a  concentrated  faith  in  the  unrelia- 
bility of  women,  and  has  every  reason  for 
exalting  that  faith  into  a  mania.  There  is 
now  one  other  good  reason  why  you  should 
allow  me  the  honor  of  escorting  you  to  the 
end  of  your  destination. 

Miss  T.  (aside). — Algy  could  not  have 
been  more  persistent.  (Aloud.)  And  may 
I  ask  what  may  that  other  good  reason  be, 
sir? 

Mr.  S. — That  misery  loves  company. 

Miss  T.  {punning  from  under  the  um- 
brella).— Sir*. 

Mr.  S.  (shocked). — Forgive  me ;  I  meant 
nothing — upon  my  honor,  I  did  not. 

Miss  T. — A  man's  honor !  You  likened 
me  unto  misery,  sir — misery  ! 

Mr.  S. — Kever !  Yd*ur  disbelief  of  men 
and  rn^ne  of  women  caused  me  to  see  the 
compatibility  of  your  remaining  in  my  com- 
pany until  I  should  place  you  in  some  per- 
manent place  of  shelter. 

Miss  T. — Oh  !  (Comes  under  the  um- 
brella; aside.)  His  mind  is  peculiarly  like 
Algy's,  and  so  masterful.  (She  takes  the 
handkerchief  from  her  bonnet,  and  turn- 
ing her  face  away,  wipes  her  eyes). 

Mr.  S.  (aside). — Am  I  brutal  enough  to 
cause  a  woman's  tears  ?  It  is  like  Cissy — 
the  way  she  dabs  'those  briny  drops  away. 

Miss  T.  Recovering). — Pardon  this  emo- 
tion, sir ;  I  know  not  why  I  should  be  so 
foolish,  and  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger, 
too.  But  memory  has  its  authority  with  us 
women. 

Mr.  S. — And  with  us  men. 

Miss  T.  (smiling  scornfully). — Men  have 
memory  ? 

Mr.  S.  (sententiously). — As  lasting  mem- 
ories as  women. 

Miss  T.  (excitedly). — Prove  it !  prove  it ! 
I  know  not  why  I  speak  thus  familiarly,  as 


308  UNDER  AN 

I  despise  men  individually  and  collectively. 
But  you  have  made  an  assertion  which  I 
have  ever  combated,  and  I  am  constrained 
to  beg  you  to  prove  to  me  that  memory 
has  any  meaning  to  a  man.  1  can  strength- 
en my  argument  by  still  further  throwing 
aside  reserve  and  imparting  to  you  a  cause 
for  my  distaste  for  the  society  of  gentle- 
men, by  saying  that  my  memory  of  the 
perfidy  of  one  man  has  well  nigh  made  me 
loathe  your  sex.    That  is  memory  for  you  ! 

Mr.  8. — I  will  be  equally  unconven- 
tional and  tell  you  that  remembrance  of  the 
unreliability  of  one  woman  has  given  me  a 
doubt  of  every  other. 

Miss  T.  {aside). — What  a  grasp  he  has 
on  his  subject.  {Aloud.)  But  does  your 
memory  take  you  back  past  the  slight  you 
may  have  received  ? 

Mr.  8. — It  does.  I  see  in  all  the  glory 
of  our  first  acquaintance  the  one  who 
injured  me,  maidenly,  sweet  and  lovable. 
Can  you  prove  so  much,  and  after  many 
years  ? 

Miss  T. — More — and  perhaps  as  many 
years  have  passed  since  the  event  as  in 
your  case.  I  see  the  man  who  ruined  my 
belief  in  the  world,  and  yet  the  memory  of 
whom  has  kept  my  heart  young  while  pass- 
ing years  have,  flung  their  shadows  on  my 
face — I  see  him  as  I  loved  him. 

Mr.  8.  {Aside). — She  is  as  innocent  as 
Cissy  used  to  be.  {Aloud.)  I  see  not  only 
the  time  when  I  adored  one  woman,  but  I 
also  look  into  the  present  when  my  love  for 
her  is  as  earnest  as  is  my  hatred  for  her  sex 
because  of  her  unreliability.  There's  mem- 
ory for  you ! 

Miss  T.  {aside). — What  strength  of  de- 
votion in  a  man ;  I  would  never  have  be- 
lieved it.  If  Algy  had  only  possessed  a 
tithe  of  it.    {Aloud)    I  will  be  equally 


UMBRELLA. 


candid  and  unsophisticated,  sir,  and  declare 
to  you  that  not  only  do  I  think  kindly  of 
him  who  ruined  my  faith  in  humanity,  but 
also  that  I — I — 

Mr.  8. — You  hesitate ;  you  would  say 
that  you  still  love  him  ? 

Miss  T.  (weeping). — I  shall  love  him 
until  my  heart  has  grown  cold  in  death.  I 
may  seem  a  weak  woman  in  owning  so 
much — and  he  wns  not  true  to  me,  he  was 
not  true ! 

Mr.  8. — Nor  was  the  woman  of  my 
choice  true  to  me.  For  her  sake  I  have 
remained  a  bachelor  all  my  life. 

Miss  T.  {wiping  her  eyes  and  frown- 
ing).— Do  you  suppose  that  for  any  one's 
but  his  sake  I  am  a  spinster  ?  A  man  can 
be  so  cruel  and  accuse  a  woman  so  un- 
worthily. 

Mr.  8. — As  unworthily  as  a  woman  can 
deceive  a  man.  Suppose  a  lady  engaged  to 
a  gentleman ;  and  suppose  a  lady  at  a  ball 
dancing  nearly  the  whole  evening  with  a 
stranger  with  whom  her  fiance  is  not  ac- 
quainted ? 

Miss  T.  {her  hand  over  her  heart; 
aside). — Heaven  !  It  is  what  I  did,  and 
what  made  Algy  so  angry.  {Aloud.) 
And  suppose  a  lady  should  meet  her  sis- 
ter's husband  just  come  from  abroad,  and 
not  discover  his  identity  to  her  fiance,  sim- 
ply for  the  sake  of  a  little  jesting  ?  That ! 
for  a  man's  belief  in  her  he  professes  to 
love ! 

Mr.  8.  {aside). — Merciful  powers !  it  was 
what  Cissy  did,  and  which  I  did  not  find 
out  until  it  was  too  late  to  rectify  anything. 
{Aloud,  savagely)  I  should  say  that  such 
a  man  must  be  a  long-eared  brute. 

Miss  T. — No,  only  a  man — 

Mr.  8. — A  brute,  I  tell  you ;  I  ought  to 
know. 


UNDER 


Miss  T. — I  insist  that  he  was  only  a  man; 
a  man  who  was  not  gentle  to  her  he  loved, 
and  who  did  not  believe  in  her  against  sus- 
picious appearances.  As  for  the  lady,  she 
was  as  silly  as  it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to 
be — and  I  ought  to  know  how  silly  that  is. 

Mr.  8. — I  cannot  call  her  silly;  she  may 
have  lacked  discretion,  but  silly — no  !  a 
cheerful,  loving  creature  whose  own  purity 
of  intention  blinded  her  to  the  miserable 
suspicion  of  others. 

(Miss  Truman  picks  up  her  handkerchief*.  A 
piano  plays  "The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me.") 

Mr.  8. — Somebody  in  one  of  these 
houses  is  playing  a  tune  peculiarly  applic- 
able to  our  present  conversation. 

Miss  T.  (listening).— "The  Girl  I  Left 
Behind  Me."  (They  both  listen  to  the 
music). 

Mr.  8. — Ah,  if  for  one  moment  I  might 
see  the  girl  I  loved  and  left  behind  me  ! 

Miss  T.  (aside). — Algy  used  to  hare 
these  qualms  of  conscience.  (Aloud)  In 
the  case  of  his  meeting  the  lady  what 
would  such  a  man  as  you  have  been  de- 
scribing do?  That  must  decide  if  a  man's 
memory  be  as  lasting  as  a  woman's.  What 
would  he  say,  sir  ? 

Mr  8. — He  would  say —  (Aside.)  I  can't 
get  the  words  out ;  this  lady  is  exerting 
a  marvelous  influence  over  me. 

Miss  I7.— Well,  what  would  he  say  ? 

Mr.  8.  (aside). — And  yet  I  must  see  if 
there  is  any  chance  for  a  man's  gaining  a 
share  of  the  friendship  of  such  a  strong 
creature.  (Aloud.)  What  would  such  a 
lady  as  you  have  been  speaking  of  say 
should  she  meet  the  man  who — 

Miss  T. — Who  twenty -five  years  ago 
doubted  her?  She  would  say — (Aside.) 
I  cannot  say  it ;  the  idea  of  this  stranger 
causing  me  to  act  so  outrageously ! 


UMBRELLA.  3°9 

(The  piano  keeps  on  playing  "The   Girl  I 
Left  Behind  Me.") 

Mr.  8. — The  lady  would  say  ? 
Miss  T. — Oh,  listen  to  the  music !  (Lis- 
tens.) 

Mr.  8. — Never  mind  the  music.  What 
would  the  lady  say  ? 

Miss  T.  (aside) — How  masterful.  (Aloud. 
She  would  say — nay,  what  would  your  gen- 
tleman say  if  he  met  the  unreliable  lady  ? 
I  insist  upon  your  answer  first ;  it  is  but 
fair. 

Mr.  8.  (musing). — He  would  say,  "When 
I  went  four  hundred  miles  apart  from  you, 
and  staid  away  until  this  morning,  when  I 
entered  again  my  native  town  and  wandered 
near  your  old  abode,  wondering  if  I  should 
know  you  if  I  met  you  after  all  these  years, 
and — and — " 

Miss  T.  (aside). — If  Algy  should  come  to 
me  thus  !  (Aloud).  Yes — yes  ;  but  why 
hesitate?  Finish  it,  finish  it.  He  would 
say? 

Mr.  8. — The  man  would  say,  "  I  have 
been  a  fool,  and  I  have  come  to  ask  forgive- 
ness for  the  sake  of  the  dear  old  days.  And 
though  I  am  unworthy — " 

Miss  T.  (interrupting). — No,  no ;  if  she 
is  a  woman  who  can  appreciate  the  power 
of  memory — and  I  acknowledge  that  you 
have  proven  that  a  man  can  have  as  vigor- 
ous a  memory  as  a  woman — she  would  say, 
"  Not  your  fault  but  mine ;  I  alone  am  to 
blame  for  my  silly  act ;  I  alone  ana  to  blame, 
and  bitterly  have  I  paid  for  it — bitterly, 
bitterly  !  "  (She  puts  her  hand  before  her 
face). 

Mr.  8.  (aside). — Surely  she  speaks  about 
herself.  She  will  have  no  friendly  feeling 
even  for  any  man  but  the  scoundrel  who 
treated  her  badly  and  whom  she  still  idol- 
izes.    What  an  old  fool  I  have  been! 


AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS. 


{Aloud).  Well,  do  not  hesitate.  And  yet 
I  will  end  all  this ;  it  is  trying  to  you.  The 
past  is  past ;  it  has  gone  into  the  sunset- 
land  of  Nevermore. 

Mis6  T—  Well,  I  think  I  shall  proceed 
on  my  way.  {Ties  her  handkerchief  over 
her  bonnet  and  moves  off,  when  Mr.  /Small 
catches  her  by  the  wrist) . 

Mr.  S. — And  yet  I  fain  would  know 
what  the  lady  would  say  to  the  scoundrel 
should  she  meet  him. 

Miss  T.  {trying  to  free  her  hand; 
aside). — What  a  grasp  he  has  on  his  sub- 
ject ;  and  as  persistent  as  Algy  used  to  be. 
Are  all  men  so?  {Aloud).  The  lady 
would  say,  "  If  there  is  one  super-prepos- 
terous person  on  earth,  her  name  is — " 

Mr.  S—  Hold— ! 

Miss  T. — Pray  take  your  hand  from  my 


arm  ;  this  is  all  very  nonsensical.  I  must  go. 

Mr.  S. — Hold  !  make  your  humanity  in 
the  plural  by  saying,  "If  there  are  two 
super-preposterous  persons  in  this  world, 
they  are — " 

Miss  T.  {freeing  herself). — Cecilia  Tru- 
man ! 

Mr.  S.  felling). — Algernon  Small ! 
Miss  T.  {thrillingly). — Algy,  is  it  you  ? 
Mr.  S.— Cissy  j  Cissy  ! 
Miss  T.— You  horrid— 
Mr.  S. — You  perfidious — 

{Mr.  Small  drops  his  umbrella,  and  they 
run,  into  each  other's  arms— the  piano  playing 
"The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me:") 

{Curtain  falls.) 

Note. — To  render  this  dialogue  more  effective,  the  stage 
should  be  hung  in  gray  paper  muslin,  to  give  a  twilight  fcf- 
fecr,  and  also  add  to  the  illusion  of  producing  rain  by 
whatever  mechanical  means  may  be  employed. 


AFTEEJ    TWENTY  YEA^S, 


CHARACTERS. 


Miss  Agatha  Trelawney,  aged  40. 
Kitty  Angus,  aged  19. 
Captain  Richard  May,  aged  4.5. 


SCENE. 

Miss  Trelawney's  drawing-room;  folding-doors 
back;  piano;  a  screen  (right)  so  arranged  that 
the  person  hidden  by  it  can  face  the  audience. 
Miss  Trelawney  discovered,  in  plain  morning 
costume  and  cap,  seated,  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

Miss  Trelawney. — To  think  that  over 
twenty  years  have  gone  by  since  he  was 
last  in  this  house.  And  he  is  coming  to- 
day !    In  all  those  years  I  have  never  seen 

*  From  One  Hundred  Choice  Selections,  No.  14. 


him  ;  nay,  have  not  so  much  as  looked  upon 
his  handwriting  until  this  letter  reached  me 
an  hour  ago.  Dare  I  remember  twenty 
years  back  ? — dare  a  woman  at  my  age  view 
an  old  sentiment  with  partial  eyes  without 
becoming  ridiculous  to  herself  in  her  soberer 
moments  ?  A  sentiment !  No,  no,  it  was 
more  than  that,  it  was  more  than  that !  I 
was  nineteen,  he  a  few  years  more ;  we  met, 
we — did  he  love  me  when  so  trifling  a 


AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS. 


thing  as  a  foolish  hasty  word  could  separate 
us  ?  But  now  he  is  in  America  again,  and 
he  comes  to  me — for  what?  Oh,  foolish 
woman-heart,  you  force  me  into  forget- 
fulness  of  everything,  but  that  you  once 
throbbed  rapturously  when  you  knew  that 
he  came  nigh.  Yet  I  am  not  old, — mem- 
ory has  kept  me  young.  Affection — ah,  af- 
fection may  be  eternal,  untouched  by  time 
and  loss  of  youthful  bloom. 

(Enter  Kitty  Angus). 

Kitty  Angus. — Heigho,  aunty,  still  com- 
muning with  your  letter  ?  (Seating  herself 
and  dangling  her  hat  by  the  strings).  I  am 
awfully  glad  that  Captain  May  is  coming ;  it 
will  relieve  the  monotony  of  a  morning 
which  two  interesting  females  feared  was 
to  be  spent  in  futile  efforts  to  keep  from 
gaping  in  each  other's  faces. 

Miss  T. — My  dear  

Kitty. — My  dear,  I  am  positive  we  should 
have  gaped.  I  don't  know  but  I  should 
have  sneezed.  Why,  you  have  been  brood- 
ing over  that  letter  for  an  hour.  Dear  me ! 
I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  be  so  complimen- 
tary to  a  letter.  The  writer  of  it  was  com- 
plimentary to  you,  too ;  when  I  met  the 
Captain  in  the  winter,  just  before  I  left 
London  for  America,  the  first  thing  he  said 
to  me  was — (Clock  strikes).  There!  it's 
nearly  time  for  him  to  be  here,  his  train  is 
due  in  a  little  while.    How  do  I  look  ? 

Miss  T. — Dear,  you  were  saying  that 
when  you  met  Captain  May  

Kitty. — His  nephew  was  with  him,  you 
know;  his  deceased  brother's  son.  The 
Captain  has  been  second  father  to  him ;  as 
you  have,  since  mamma's  death,  been  a 
second  mother  to  me.    Is  my  hair  all  right  % 

Miss  T. — Yes.  But  you  were  saying 
that  Captain  May's  first  words  to  you 
were  


Kitty. — To  be  sure.  He  said,  "  Ah,  Miss 
Angus," — he  often  says  "  ah,"  being  eld- 
erly,— "  Ah,  Miss  Angus,  how  is  your  Aunt 
Agatha  ? " 

Miss  T.— Did  he,  indeed  ? 

Kitty. — He  could  do  no  less  ;  you  were 
the  only  familiar  subject  we  could  broach. 
But  after  that  first  meeting  we  became  won- 
derfully intimate ;  I  met  him  everywhere. 

Miss  T. — He  went  out  a  great  deal  ? 

Kitty. — Everywhere.  All  the  girls  were 
dying  for  him — the  undertakers  offered  him 
untold  wealth  if  he  would  only  establish 
himself  in  the  vicinity  of  a  young  ladies' 
school. 

Miss  T.— Kitty ! 

Kitty. — Aunt  Aggy,  now  you're  cross. 
(Embracing  her).  Well,  the  men  liked 
him  equally  well.  But  men  don't  die  for 
men — except  some  doctor's  patient.  Jack 

Miss  T. — Jack  !    Is  that  the  nephew  ? 

Kitty. — You  know  it  is.  Jack  just  dotes 
on  him.    He  calls  him  "  nunky." 

Miss  T. — Do  young  ladies  make  so  free 
with  young  gentlemen's  names  now  a-days  % 

Kitty. — You  refer  to  my  calling  Jack, 
Jack  ?  Oh,  I  always  call  him  Jack.  He 
likes  it.    So  do  I. 

Miss  T.  (in  horror). — But  to  call  him 
thus,  and  to  his  face ! 

Kitty. — There  is  just  the  point  where 
your  generation  and  mine  differ.  Yours 
was  a  slyer  age,  aunty ;  you  used  to  call 
men  Jack  behind  their  backs,  and  Mr.  so- 
and-so  to  their  faces.  We  don't ;  we  say 
Jack  all  the  time — when  we  know  them 
well  enough.  (Edging  closer  to  Miss  T.) 
Now  I  don't  believe  you  ever  called  Cap- 
tain May  "  Kichard,"  did  you  * 

Miss  T.  (confused). — Kitty,  have  you 
practiced  this  morning  % 


AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS. 


Kitty. — Oh,  I  am  too  nervous  to  do  any- 
thing, except  wait.  I — (humming,  rises 
and  goes  to  piano;  plays  softly  "  You'll 
Remember  Me;  "  sings  quietly):  "When 
other  lips  and  other  hearts  their  tales  of 
love  shall  tell — "  (Stops  the  song  and  plays 
the  air). 

Miss  T. — (Kitty  keeps  on  playing  the 
air).    Kitty ! 

Kitty  (playing). — Did  you  call,  aunty? 

Miss  T. — We  were  speaking  of  Captain 
May,  you  will  remember.  Was  he  looking 
very  old  when  you  met  him  ? 

Kitty  (playing). — No,  indeed ;  quite  ju- 
venile ;  he  always  wore  a  rosebud  in  his 
coat. 

Miss  T. — He  was  not  wrinkled  ?    No  ? 

Kitty. — Wrinkled  ?    Mercy,  no ! 

(Miss  T.  cautiously  reaches  a  hand-glass 
from  the  table,  regards  herself  in  it,  and 
shakes  her  head,  Kitty  playing  the  one  air 
at  the  piano). 

Miss  T.  (replacing  glass). — Kitty,  was 
he — ah — very — ah — happy  ? 

Kitty  {playing). — I  should  say  so.  A 
regular  giggler. 

Miss  T.  (shocked).— What ! 

Kitty. — Oh,  but  he  was.  I  used  to  say 
to  him  severely,  "  You're  a  terror  for  laugh- 
ing, Jack." 

Miss  T.— Jack  !  oh ! 

Kitty. — The  nephew,  you  know.  Per- 
haps you're  referring  to  the  uncle  ?  No,  he 
never  giggled  very  much ;  he  had  a  rather 
sad  face  when  he  was  not  animated — all 
elderly  people  have  sad  faces  at  times.  I 
adore  sad  faces,  don't  you?  (Crashes  on 
the  piano,  and  comes  forward).  Aunty, 
aunty,  tempus  is  fugiting.  Do  dress  to  re- 
ceive the  Captain. 

Miss  T. — Dress  !    I  am  an  old  woman, 


out  of  society ;  why  should  I  dress  to  re- 
ceive an  elderly  man  ? 

Kitty. — Suppose  the  elderly  man  knew 
you  in  your  early  days,  has  not  seen  you  in 
many  years,  and  has  carried  around  the 
world  with  him  some  remembrance  of  your 
youthful  appearance  ? 

Miss  T.  (rising  and  gathering  up  her 
letter). — But  

Kitty. — But  me  no  outs.  You  are  about 
to  accuse  yourself  of  age  again.  Old ! 
Why,  dearie,  you  are  still  young ;  positively 
in  a  proper  toilette  you  are  newer  than  I 
am.  Do  put  on  that  lovely  robe  in  which 
you  look  so  well ;  there's  a  dear  good  aunty. 
I  want  Captain  May  to  see  you  sweet  and 
young. 

Miss  T. — Wherefore  ? 

Kitty. — Because  he  knew  you  when  you 
were  so. 

Miss  T. — I !    Young  anu  sweet  * 
Kitty.— Bo,  do  ! 

Miss  T. — To  please  you  I  would  do  many 
foolish  things. 

Kitty. — Yes,  yes,  then  to  please  me. 
Mercy !  didn't  you  hear  the  music  I  have 
just  played  ? — it  was  "  You'll  Remember 
Me;1' — I  played  it  for  you. 

Miss  T.— For  me  ? 

Kitty. — For  the  old  time's  sake,  your  old 
time.  There  !  do  go  and  put  on  the  lovely 
robe  ;  be  foolish  to  please  me. 

Miss  T.  (in  reverie). — If  it  should  be !  If 
the  old  times  are  to  him  what  they  are  to 
me ! 

Kitty. — What  are  you  saying,  aunty  ? 

Miss  T. — Yes,  yes,  I  will  go  and  dress 
(going),  I  will  go  

Kitty. — The  pretty  robe,  remember. 

Miss  T. — Yes,  yes,  the  youthful  robe. 
But  I  put  it  on  to  please  you,  Kitty ;  I  put 
it  on  to  please  you. 


AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS. 


{Exit  Miss  T.) 
Kitty  {Looking  after  her) . — You  couldn't 
be  foolish  for  your  own  sake,  could  you? 

0  aunty,  aunty,  just  as  though  I  did  not 
know  your  story.  His  nephew  Jack  told 
me  all  about  it,  silly  old  Jack  !  But  I  can- 
not stay  here  alone ;  I'm  too  nervous.  I'll 
run  about  the  garden  till  the  Captain  comes. 
Dear  !  how  I  dread,  yet  welcome,  this  visit ! 

1  know  the  business  that  brings  him.  And 
how  will  Aunt  Agatha  take  it  ?  She  thinks, 
like  all  people  of  her  age,  that  nineteen  is 
too  young  to  marry,  but  it  isn't,  and — and — 

(Exit,  singing  "  When  other  lips  and  other 
hearts"  etc). 

(Enter  at  folding-doors,  Captain  May. 
His  hair  is  slightly  grizzled;  a  rosebud  is 
in  his  button-hole?) 

Captain  May. — No  one  here  ?  Surely  I 
am  expected? — Agatha  has  received  my 
note?  Does  she  forget  her  old  friends? 
(Looking  about  him.)  Ah,  this  old  room  ! 
I  have  not  been  in  it  for  twenty  years,  and 
yet,  despite  the  new  appointments,  how 
familiar  it  is.  Here,  day  after  day,  I  used 
to  come.  How  we  watched  the  moon  arise 
over  the  trees  in  the  garden!  The  old 
trees  are  the  same  that  I  knew  twenty  years 
ago, — trees  are  life-long  friends  of  men. 
And  then  of  winter  evenings  how  we  loved 
the  firelight  and  the  soft  sigh  of  the  wind 
in  the  chimney.  And  how  sweet  Agatha 
was.  It  was  the  fancied  likeness  to  her 
aunt  that  first  attracted  me  to  little  Kitty. 
Dear  little  Kitty  !  Ah  me !  how  senti- 
mental we  old  stagers  grow  when  we  get 
the  chance.  I  feel  almost  shaky  about  meet- 
ing Agatha.  An  order  to  go  into  immedi- 
ate battle  is  not  so  terrible  as  the  going  to 
meet  a  friend  after  twenty  years  of  absence. 
Feeling  his  pulse.)  Why,  it's  ninety!  pshaw! 


( Walks  about,  goes  to  piano  and  turns  over 
the  music  on  the  rack.)  rt  When  other  lips 
and  other  hearts  their  tales  of  love  shall 
tell."  Kitty's  been  singing,  I  suppose. 
What  sentimental  trash  young  people  ad- 
mire. (  Whistles  the  tune,  coughs,  dashes  a 
tear  from  his  eye.)  There !  (gruffly.)  I'm 
an  old  fool — no  fool  is  like  an  old  one. 
Maybe  they're  in  the  garden;  let  me  go 
and  see.  I  was  never  floored  by  a  con- 
founded tune  before.  (Angrily  throws 
open  the  folding-doors  and  rushes  out,  jam- 
ming  his  hat  on  his  head,  whistling  the 
tune.) 

(Enter  Miss  T.  in  an  elegant  robe,  with- 
out cap,  and  looking  young). 

Miss  T. — To  think  that  I  should  act  so 
unwomanly.  Why  am  I  dressed  out  in  this 
peacock  raiment?  Let  me  acknowledge 
the  truth,  that  I  do  it  to  make  myself  at- 
tractive in  the  eyes  of  a  man.  Horror! 
how  indelicate !  And  yet  I  have  known 
him  so  long,  I  knew  him  when  I  was  young  • 
and  shall  he  note  the  ravages  of  time  if  I 
can  veil  them  ?  But  why  does  he  come  ? — 
could  he  not  let  me  rest  in  peace  ?  His 
letter  merely  says  that  he  has  something  of 
importance  to  say  to  me,  to  impart  which 
he  travels  three  thousand  miles.  Some- 
thing of  importance !  (Takes  letter  from 
her  bosom  and  reads  it.)  Twenty  years 
ago  such  a  letter  would  have  made  my  heart 
flutter,  possibly.  (Feeling  above  her  heart.) 
Not  more  than  it  flutters  now.  (Puts  let- 
ter in  her  bosom  again?)  And  I  old  enough 
to  be  sensible !  Kitty  says  he  looks  young, 
has  no  wrinkles,  and — (snatches  hand-glass 
from  table  and  regards  herself  in  it.)  I 
am  not  so  old,  not  so  very  old. ;  without  my 
cap  my  hair  is  not  ugly.  (Kitty  laughs 
outside.  Miss  T.  throws  down  the  glass 
agitatedly.)    Oh,  he  is  here,  he  is  in  the 


3'4 


AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS. 


garden  with  Kitty !  I  cannot  meet  him 
yet ;  I  require  more  preparation  than  I 
thought  I  should.  {Kitty  and  Captain 
May  both  laugh.)  They  are  merry  !  Kitty 
and  he  together — and  he  comes  to  see  me — 
something  of  importance  to  communicate 
— and  all  the  girls  were  in  love  with  him — 
Kitty  is  a  girl !  she  played  a  silly  love-song 
while  she  talked  about  him ;  she  considers 
him  young  looking,  even  noticed  that 
he  always  wore  a  rosebud;  he  has  a  sad 
face,  and  she  adores  sad  faces;  he  went 
everywhere,  she  often  met  him  ;  she  became 
intimate  with  him ;  she, — oh,  what  a  fool 
does  memory  make  of  a  woman  !  I  refused 
to  see  the  truth, — he  comes  to  America  to 
ask  for  Kitty's  hand  !  I — I — I  cannot 
meet  him  thus.  (Kitty  laughs.)  They  are 
here !  (Looks  about  for  hiding  place. 
Goes  behind  screen,  where  she  faces  the 
audience.) 

(Enter  at  folding-doors  Captain  May 
and  Kitty,  laughing.) 

Kitty. — It  is  a  most  amusing  story,  Cap- 
tain. And  so  the  lady,  after  all  those  years, 
still  clung  to  the  man  and  would  not  hear  a 
word  in  his  disfavor,  although  his  flirtations 
were  public  comment. 

Capt.  M. — Such  is  woman's  devotion.  I 
was  not  laughing  at  her  devotion,  but  at  the 
man's  perpetual  youth.  Ah,  yes,  a  woman's 
devotion.    ISTow,  a  man's  devotion  

Kitty. — That  is  an  entirely  different  mat- 
ter. We  all  know  what  man's  devotion 
is — true  to  one  woman  all  day,  in  the  eve- 
ning true  to  another  ;  Anna  Maria  in  May, 
Susan  Jane  in  June ;  by  October  all  the 
names  in  the  American  category  of  feminine 
loveliness  exhausted,  and  then  hey !  for 
Europe  and  Victorias  and  Maries. 

Capt.  M. — You  speak  as  one  who  has 


been  coached  according  to  the  morbidity  of 
some  female  Byron.    Has  your  aunt  

Kitty. — My  aunt  never  coaches  any  one  ; 
she  is  younger  than  I  am — quite  a  baby. 
I  continually  shock  her  with  my  superior 
knowledge  of  the  world.    She  is  

Capt.  M. — But  let  us  not  speak  of  her. 
(Placing  seatf&r  Kitty.)  «  She  will  be  here 
presently  to  speak  for  herself. 

Kitty. — I  don't  know  why  she  stays  away 
so  long.  I — I — (seating  herself)  am  grow- 
ing nervous  again 

Capt.  M.  (sitting  down). — Over  what  I 
am  about  to  say  to  you  % 

Kitty. — That  depends  upon  what  you 
are  going  to  say. 

Capt.  M. — You  know  why  I  am  here  ? 

Kitty. — I  cannot  say  that  I  do  not.  I 
have  not  told  aunty  though ;  I  dared  not. 
She  has  old-fashioned  notions  about  youth- 
ful brides. 

Capt.  M. — Once  more  permit  me  to  sug- 
gest that  your  aunt  be  left  out  of  the  ques- 
tion.   You  know  why  I  come  to  America  ? 

Kitty* — Oh,  I  am  so  nervous.    Yes ! 

Capt*  M. — You  know  that  I  come  to  tell 
your  aunt  that  a  man  offers  you  his  heart 
and  fortune  ? 

Kitty  (lowering  her  head.) — Yes. 

Capt.  M. — I  come  for  more  than  that;  I 
come  to  beg  you.  to  consider  what  you  are 
doing.  You  are  plighting  yourself  for  life 
to  one  man. 

Kitty. — How  horribly  serious  you  are; 
just  like  Aunt  Agatha. 

Capt.  M — I  see  you  will  not  leave  your 
aunt  out. 

Kitty. — She  is  leaving  herself  out  at 
present.  I  wish  she'd  come  •  she'd  take  it 
serious  enough. 

Capt.  M. — True,  your  aunt  and  I  belong 
to  a  generation  tliat  regards  youth  witb 


AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS. 


more  careful  eyes  than  we  did  twenty  years 
ago.  But  as  I  say,  I  would,  dear  Kitty, 
have  you  view  this  avowal  of  love  with  all 
due  reverence.    It  is  a  holy  thing  

Kitty  {crying). — And  not  to  be  lightly 
entered  into.  I  know,  I  know  it  all ;  I've 
read  the  marriage  service  ever  since  I  was 
sixteen.  And  I  know  all  about  the  solemn- 
ity and  "I,  M,  take  thee,  N,"  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.    Oh  !  oh  !  oh ! 

Capt.  M. — What  have  I  done!  Made 
you  miserable  ?  Forgive  me !  I  came  on 
the  most  blissful  of  errands, — to  speak  to 
you  of  love  and  marriage ;  and  see  how 
clumsily  I  have  gone  about  it.  There ! 
there  !  {trying  to  pacify  her!) 

Miss  T.  {behind  the  screen,  takes  the  letter 
from  her  bosom  and  tears  it  to  pieces,  speak- 
ing sadly): — I  am  old— an  old,  old  woman. 
Let  me  take  off  this  frivolous  garb.  How 
thankful  I  am  that  I  have  heard  him  before 
I  met  him. 

{The  Captain  still  pacifying  Kitty;  Miss 
T.  unperceived  slips  past  the  screen,  crosses 
the  stage  and  exits.) 

Capt.  M. — Ah!  Now  you  smile  again, 
ind  I  am  forgiven  ? 

Kitty  {knotting  her  handkerchief). — 
There  isn't  anything  to  forgive,  but  I  for- 
give you  all  the  same. 

Capt.  M. — I  dare  say  I  made  a  sad 
bungle  of  it. 

Kitty. — So  many  elderly  people  make 
bungles.  They  seem  to  think  that  we  young 
people  haven't  a  grain  of  sense,  because  we 
don't  use  it  as  we  rise  pepper  and  salt  to 
season  everything  we  are  regaled  upon. 

Capt.  M. — I  dare  say  I  am  elderly. 

Kitty.— Oh,  frightfully. 

Capt.  M. — While  your  aunt  

Kitty. — You  said  my  aunt  should  not  be 


3i5 


brought  in.    {Aside.)    Vll  bring  her  in, 
though. 

Capt.  M. — I  merely  remarked  

Kitty. — Pardon  me  !  You  meant  to  re- 
mark  > 

Capt.  M.— That  while  I  

Kitty. — That  while  you  are  horribly 
old  

Capt.  M.— Old ! 

Kitty. — Quite  a  relic.  That  while  you 
are  a  second  Methusaleh,  aunty  is  in  the  en- 
joyment of  incessant  youthfulness.  I  will 
not  deceive  you,  Captain  May  ;  my  Aunt 
Agatha  has  discovered  the  philosopher's 
stone  and  has  turned  everything  into  gold, 
and  herself  into  a  being  who  will  never 
arrive  at  maturity — I  just  now  told  you 
that  she  was  a  baby. 

Capt.  M.  {in  reverie). — She  used  to  be 
very  sweet. 

Kitty. — She's  a  great  deal  sweeter  now. 
All  the  men  for  miles  around  rave  about 
her. 

Capt.  M. — They  used  to  rave  ab&ut  her 
twenty  years  ago. 

Kitty. — It's  worse  now.  An  undertaker 
wants  her. 

Capt.  M.  {in  horror). — An  undertaker 
wants  her  !    Why — why — 

Kitty. — Oh,  merely  to  take  a  house  near 
a  college. 

Capt.  M.  — Near  a  college  ? 

Kitty. — So  that  he  may  have  a  brisk 
trade  in  the  families  of  the  sophomores. 

Capt.  M.  (laughing). — You  ridiculous 
Kitty. 

Kitty. — Then  why  did  you  make  me  cry  ? 
Capt.  M. — Seriously,  Kitty, — 
Kitty. — Seriously,  Captain  May,— 
Capt.  M. — Your  aunt  is  very  young  in 
appearance,  I  presume  1 

Kitty. — I  have  told  you  twice  that  she  is 


3i6 


AFTER  TWENTY  TEARS. 


a  baby.  She  could  not  be  younger  than 
that. 

Capt.    M. — Younger  !      Ah — younger 
looking  than — than  me,  of  course  ? 
Kitty. — Of  course. 

(  Capt.  M.  slyly  gets  possession  of  the  hand- 
glass and  looks  into  it.) 

Capt.  M. — And — and— 

Kitty. — I  only  wish  she  would  hurry. 
Younger  looking  than  you  !  My  goodness  ! 
wait  till  you  see  her  ! 

Capt  M. — She  goes  out  a  good  deal,  eh  ? 

Kitty. — Indeed  she  does. 

Capt.  M. — She  always  went  out  a  good 
deal. 

Kitty. — She  goes  once  a  week  to  the  rec- 
tory to  make  up  flannel  for  the  dear  little 
Indians  ;  two  days  to  church  ;  a  half  day 
to  read  to  people  who  never  learned  the 
art.  The  other  three  days  and  a  half  she 
is  occupied  in  keeping  me  from  saying  any- 
thing about  her  to  quizzing  elderly  gentle- 
men. 

Capt.  M. — Elderly  gentlemen  !  Do 
elderly  gentlemen  come  here  ? 

Kitty. — There  was  one  here  to-day. 

Capt.  M.  (putting  down  glass  and  ris- 
ing).— Yes,  Kitty,  I  am  old, — far  too  old 
for  nonsense,  and  far  too  old  for  you  to  sit 
there  and  laugh  at  me. 

Kitty  (rising  and  going  to  him). — Oh, 
Captain,  pray  forgive  me  ;  you  are  too  dear 
to  me  for  me  to  make  a  jest  of — 

(Enter  Miss  T.  in  first  dress,  and  with  cap.) 

Miss  T.  (going  to  Captain  M.  and  smil- 
ingly  giving  him  her  hand). — I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you,  Captain  May. 

Capt.  M. — Agatha — Miss  Trelawney, 
after  all  these  years  of  absence  ! 

Kitty. — Why,  aunty,  you  promised  me 


you'd  put  on  your  lovely  young  robe.  You 
look  almost  elderly  in  that  thing. 

Miss  T. — I  am  honored  by  this  visit 
Captain  May ;  a  visit  of  business  presum- 
ably. 

Capt.  M.~ My  old  friend  ! 

Miss  T. — You  compliment  me  by  call- 
ing me  such.  Time  has  dealt  kindly  with 
you,  Captain  May. 

Capt.  M. — I  should  have  known  you 
anywhere,  Agatha. 

Miss  T.  (laughing). — You  flatter  me. 
(Soberly.)  But  this  matter  of  importance 
which  you  have  to  communicate  ?  You  will 
pardon  me,  but  I  am  expected  at  the  rec- 
tory— 

Capt.  M.  (stiffly). — Yes,  to  sew  flannel 
for  Indian  babies.  This  welcome  quite 
overpowers  me;  it  is  scarcely  what  one 
would  have  looked  for  after  twenty  years 
of  separation. 

Miss  T. — I  am  sorry ;  but  then  age 
makes  one  practical.  The  matter  of  im- 
portance ? 

Capt.  M. — Upon  my  word,  madame ! 

Kitty  (rubbing  her  hands). — It's  coming ! 
it's  coming ! 

Capt.  M. — The  matter,  madam,  is  this — 

Kitty. — Oh !  (goes  to  piano  and  runs 
her  hand  over  the  keys). 

Miss  T. — I  await  your  pleasure,  Captain 
May. 

Capt.  M. — I — ah — ahem  !  Your  niece 
— ah — ahem  ! 

Miss  T.  (cheerfully). — My  niece — 

Capt.  M. — Has  become  the  object  of — a 
man's  devotion. 

Miss  T. — I  know  it. 

Kitty.— O  aunty,  don't  fib  !  Who  told 
you? 

Capt.  M. — You  are  apprised  of  this  ? 
Miss  T. — Let  me  not  act  as  though  I  am 


AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS. 


in  ignorance  of  anything  you  may  say  to 
me.  Besides  I  am  anxious  to  get  to  the 
rectory.  I  know  all  that  you  would  tell 
me.  When  you  first  entered  this  room 
with  my  niece,  I  was  behind  that  screen, 
and  before  I  had  a  chance  to  escape,  heard 
something  of  what  you  told  her.  Allow 
me  to  congratulate  you  on  the  manner  in 
which  you  have  fulfilled  your  office. 

Capt.  M. — Then  you  consent  to  this 
marriage  ? 

Miss  T. — I  do,  most  heartily. 

Kitty  {running  to  her). — Oh,  you  deli- 
cious aunty  ! 

Miss  T.  {repulsing  her). — Go  away,  Kit- 
ty !  go  away,  I  say  ! 

Kitty. — Why,  Aunt  Agatha — 

Copt.  M.-~ And  I  may  tell  him  so  ? 

Miss  T.— Tell  him  !    Tell  whom » 

Capt.  M. — Jack,  my  nephew. 

Miss  T.  (feebly). — Jack,  your  nephew  ! 
What  has  Jack,  your  nephew  to  do  with  it  ? 

Capt.  M. — Then  you  do  not  know  the 
gist  of  the  matter  ? 

Kitty. — I  knew  you  were  fibbing;  you 
donH  know  it.  But  youVe  said  that  I 
might  accept, — Captain  May  has  your  word 
for  it.  I  never  told  you,  but  it's  Jack  May, 
the  Captain's  brother's  son,  my  dear  Jack  ! 

Miss  T. — His  nephew  !  Jack !  {putting 
her  hand  to  her  head. ) 


Capt.  M. — Agatha!  what  is  it?  Is  it 
possible — 

Miss  T.—l  thought — I  thought — 

Capt.  M. — Agatha,  tell  me — after  all 
these  years — my  old  affection  for  you — ■ 
which  has  never  failed — 

Kitty— Oh,  that's  coming,  too.  {Runs 
to  piano  and  plays  softly,  "  When  other 
lips  and  other  hearts  "  etc.) 

Capt.  M. — Speak,  speak,  Agatha.  You 
thought  that  Kitty's  suitor — 

Miss  T. — Kitty  !  Kitty  ! 

Kitty. — Don't  appeal  to  me;  I  refuse  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  you.  Only  let 
me  tell  you  that  I  know  your  story  from 
beginning  to  end,  Agatha  Trelawney  ;  Jack 
told  me.  Besides  {playing),  you're  in  a 
hurry  to  get  to  the  rectory. 

Capt.  31.  {excitedly). — Agatha,  Agatha, 
tell  me — tell  me — you  thought — 

Miss  T. — From  what  I  overheard  I 
thought — I  feared — oh  Richard,  that  you 
were  Kitty's  suitor. 

Capt.  M. — When  I  remember  twenty 
years  back,  Agatha  ? 

(He  holds  his  arms  out,  and  Miss  T.  with  a 
glad  cry  runs  to  him,  placing  her  hands 
before  her  eyes  and  resting  her  head  upon 
his  shoulder,  Kitty  singing  "  When  other 
lips,"  etc.,  as  curtain  falls.) 


THE  SONG. 


"m/AKE  UP!  wake  up!    Old  Santy  lias  come 
W     With  oceans  of  goodies  and  toys! 
Wake  up!  wake  up!  the  chiming  bells 
Proclaim  our  festive  joys." 


From  cellar  to  attic  the  riot  begins; 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  their  voices  ring, 
Their  bright  eyes  glance,  their  sweet  lips  meet, 

And  over  and  over  the  song  they  sing: 

"Ah!  jolly  Old  Santy,  you've  come  once  again 
With  gifts  for  your  girls  and  your  boys! 
We  greet  you,  we  love  you,  we  speed  you  away, 
For  millions  are  waiting  your  joys!" 

Shout  on,  happy  hearts,  hearts  pure  as  the  snow ; 

Shout  on,  for  the  years  their  measures  will  bring, — 
For  the  bright  eyes  tears,  for  the  sweet  lips  sighs, — 

But  now,  O  merrily,  joyfully  sing: 

"Santy  has  come,  Santy  has  come, 

The  silvery  bells  are  ringing; 
We'll  crown  him  with  holly  and  mistletoe, 
And  give  him  a  joyous  greeting!'' 


NOTE.— The  Christmas  Stories  in  Part  IV.  were  written  by  the  school  children  of  Chicago  and  vicinity  in 
response  to  an  invitation  from  The  Daily  News,  and  prizes  aggregating  $300.00  offered  for  the  best  productions. 
These  prizes  were  divided  into  three  classes :  Five  of  $20.00  for  stories  by  children  over  15  years ;  ten  of  810.00  for 
those  between  12  and  15,  and  twenty  of  $5.00  for  those  under  12  years.  Over  four  thousand  stories  were  submitted, 
from  which  the  following  have  been  selected.  It  may  be  said  that  they  speak  for  themselves,  and  speak  well. 
They  are  alike  imbued  with  the  same  spirit  of  youthful  impulse  and  freedom,  yet  they  are  of  all  sorts  so  far  as 
Christmas  subjects  go  and  the  manner  in  which  they  are  treated.  They  all  make,  however,  good  reading.  Hoping 
it  will  be  an  inspiration  to  young  people  all  over  the  land,  we  place  them  here  for  their  perusal,  trusting  frhey 
will  find  much  pleasure  in  reading  stories  written  by  children  whose  hearts  and  souls  are  in  the  work. 


3'8 


the  imm 

OF  Tfj£ 


'   PART  IV.   •  o 


(Awabded  Five-Dollar  Prize.) 


JOHNNY'S  TRIAL  FOR  A  CHRISTMAS  PRIZE. 


By  WILLOUGHBY  HEGLER,  Age  11  years  and  8  months. 


mtR.  Editor:  This  is  a  true  story.  In 
the  great  city  of  Chicago  a  good  man 
lived,  who  offered  prizes  for  the  best  Christ- 
mas stories — $20  for  stories  by  children  over 
15  years  of  age,  $10  for  stories  by  children 


between  12  and  15,  and  $5  for  stories  by 
children  under  12. 

Now,  I  know  a  little  boy  named  Johnny, 
and  he  said  he  would  take  the  prize,  or 
know  the  reason  why. 

First  he  got  a  pencil,  and  then  spent  half 
an  hour  in  sharpening  it.    Next  he  got  a 


sheet  of  paper  about  big  enough  to  hold  500 
words.  Then  he  spent  another  half-hour 
thinking  about  what  to  write.  Then  he 
cried  because  he  couldn't  take  a  $10  prize, 
and  then  he  cried  louder  because  he  wasn't 
old  enough  to  take  a  $20  prize. 

Then  he  went  back  to  his  subject.  First, 
he  thought  he  would  write  about  fairies,  but 
he  thought  that  was  too  girly.  Next  he 
tried  to  write  about  a  mouse's  Christmas, 
but  he  got  in  too  many  "cheeses"  and  "ands" 
and  he  had  heard  Miss  Blank,  his  teacher, 
say  that  one  should  not  use  one  word  too 
many  times  in  writing  stories. 

Then  he  asked  his  mamma  how  much 
nuts  were  a  pound  ;  before  he  got  that  set- 
tled his  foot  was  asleep.  Then  he  thought 
he  would  write  about  Washington  crossing 
the  Delaware,  but  mamma  said  that  was 
too  old  a  subject. 

Thinking  about  the  ice  in  the  Delaware, 
made  him  remember  that  he  wanted  to  go 
skating  the  next  day,  and  he  had  to  rush  to 
the  window  to  see  if  the  snow  was  still  fall- 
ing. 

Then  he  tried  to  write  a  story  called 
"  Kosciusko's  Dream."    He  knew  all  about 


321 


322 


MARGERY'S  CHRISTMAS  DOLLAR. 


Valley  Forge,  but  when  he  went  to  have 
Kosciusko  go  to  sleep  and  dream  about  Po- 
land he  found  out  he  knew  nothing  about 
Poland. 

Next  he  tried  to  write  a  story  about  a  lit- 
tle newsboy,  who  one  Christmas  eve  went 
to  sell  a  man  a  paper,  and  he  had  the  man 
find  out  that  he  was  the  man's  little  boy, 
who  had  fallen  in  the  river  and  was  drown- 
ed a  long  time  ago  ;  but  his  big  sister  said 
that  was  what  all  the  other  little  boys 
would  write  about. 

This  made  Johnny  mad,  and  he  flung  the 
paper  in  one  corner  and  the  pencil  in  the 
other,  and  said  he  wouldn't  have  all  the 
prizes  in  Chicago. 

P.  S. — My  name  is  Johnny. 


(Awaeded  Twenty  Dollar  Prize.) 
MARGERY'S   CHRISTMAS  DOLLAR. 

FRANCES  WALLACE. 
Age,  15  years  and  9  months. 

]M  ARGERY'S  Christmas  box  was  empty. 
Pennies  had  not  been  so  plentiful  in 
the  little  family  this  year  as  in  the  previous 
years  of  her  short  life,  and  the  thought 
that  she  could  have  no  part  in  the  custom- 
ary Christmas  offerings  was  making  her  a 
ver  y  sad  lirtle  girl ;  but  grandpa  had  come 
many  miles  to  visit  his  children,  and  as  he 
kissed  his  "  little  woman,"  as  he  called  her, 
good-by,  he  slipped  a  bright  silver  dollar 
into  her  hand. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  had  so 
much  money  all  her  own.  To  be  sure  she 
had  been  intrusted  with  the  housekeeping 
money  many  a  time,  for  she  was  mamma's 
trusted  little  errand  girl,  and  could  buy  the 
roast  for  dinner  or  order  the  vegetables 
from  the  market  as  well  as  anybody,  but 


she  always  counted  out  faithfully  the  change 
that  was  left,  into  her  mamma's  hand,  and 
it  was  only  once  in  a  while  that  she  was 
permitted  to  keep  a  few  pennies  all  for  her 
very  own. 

"  It  takes  all  the  money  your  papa  makes, 
my  dear,"  her  mamma  had  said  to  her  one 
day,  u  to  keep  us  and  send  you  to  school. 
We  are  not  rich,  Margery." 

Since  then  she  had  never  teased  for  the 
pennies  that  were  left,  though  the  candy 
store  on  the  corner  was  so  tempting  and 
there  were  so  many  school-girl  playthings 
that  she  wanted  so  badly. 

"  Oh,  you  dear  old  grandpa,"  she  cried, 
"  is  it  really  all  mine  V9 

"  Yes,  deary,  all  yours  to  Spend  as  you 
please ;  only  I  hope  you  won't  be  cruel  to 
it.  Some  people  treat  their  dollars  so  very 
badly.  If  this  one  could  only  speak  to  you, 
what  a  story  it  could  tell,  of  its  treatment 
since  it  became  a  dollar  and  was  started  on 
its  travels.  Just  think  how  many  pockets 
it  has  been  in." 

Just  then  the  school-bell  rang,  and  away 
ran  Margery.  The  busy  day  with  its  round 
of  lessons  kept  the  dollar  as  much  in  the 
background  of  her  thoughts  as  it  was  possi- 
ble to  keep  such  an  important  factor  in  a 
little  girl's  happiness,  and  it  wras  not  until 
she  was  going  to  bed  that  night  that  she 
stopped  to  reflect  over  her  grandpa's  words. 
"  I  wonder  what  grandpa  meant  by  mis- 
treating the  dollar,"  she  said  to  herself,  as 
she  turned  down  the  bed-clothes.  "  Oh,  I 
know ;  by  spending  it  unwisely,  of  course. 
Dollars  do  lots  of  good  in  the  world  ;  that's 
what  they  are  made  for,  and  perhaps  when 
people  waste  them  it  makes  them  feel  bad. 
Suppose  I  bought  a  whole  basketful  of 
chewing  gum  with  this  one,  I  suppose  it 
would  care  a  great  deal.    I  can  fancy  the 


MARGERY'S  CHRISTMAS  DOLLAR. 


goddess  of  liberty  will  emile  or  frown, 
according  as  I  spend  my  dollar  wisely  or 
foolishly.  I  wonder  if  anybody  ever  thought 
to  notice  %  I  am  going  to  watch  her  when 
I  spend  this.  I  wonder  how  she  looked 
when  grandpa  gave  it  to  me  this  morning  ? 
You  smiled,  didn't  you,  goddess?  I'm 
sure  I  hope  you  did." 

She  held  the  dollar  between  her  thumb 
and  finger  as  she  lay  in  bed,  with  the  moon- 
light coming  in  through  the  parted  curtains 
and  falling  in  a  broad  gleam  across  the  white 
spread.  She  could  read  every  word  that 
was  on  it.  She  could  see  by  the  date  that 
it  was  just  five  years  old.  "Why,  I  am 
more  than  twice  as  old  as  that,"  thought 
she,  "but  I  don't  suppose  I  know  half  as 
much  about  the  world  as  it  does.  I  wonder 
if  a  little  girl  ever  owned  it  before,  and 
I  wonder  how  many  things  it  has  paid  for  ? 
Don't  I  wish  it  could  turn  into  a  fairy  and 
tell  me  its  story  !  If  my  cot  were  only  like 
the  lame  prince's  wonderful  cloak,  I  would 
say  'Abracadabra,  abracadabra,'  as  he  did, 
and  away  we  would  go  to  fairyland." 

"  No  need  for  me  to  go  to  fairyland  to 
talk,''  said  a  silvery  voice  that  Margery  was 
sure  came  from  the  dollar.  Sure  enough ! 
when  she  looked  closely  at  the  face  of  the 
goddess  she  saw  that  she  was  smiling  at 
her,  and  that  her  lips  were  moving,  but  she 
was  not  a  bit  frightened. 

"  Oh,  please  tell  me  something,  tell 
me  everything  you  know,  tell  me  every- 
where you  have  been,  won't  you  ?"  she  asked, 
eagerly. 

"  My  dear  child,  I  cannot ;  it  would  take 
too  long,  but  I  will  tell  you  some  of  my 

history." 

"Oh,  do,  please,  go  back  to  the  very  begin- 
ning,'' urged  Margery.  "  I  want  to  know 
so  much,  and,  and — I'll  give  you  plenty  of 

(13) 


time.  I  won't  spend  you  for  ever  so  long 
if  you'll  only  talk  to  me." 

"  I  will  tell  you  my  story  only  on  consid- 
eration that  you  are  not  to  interrupt  me  till 
I  get  through.  You  see,  I  know  how  chil- 
dren ask  questions.  You  must  let  me  tell 
it  in  my  way." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  promise,"  Margery  hastened 
to  reply,  fearful  to  importune  further  lest 
the  goddess  should  refuse  altogether. 

"  Well,  the  first  I  remember  is  lying  in 
the  mint  with  many  others.  We  had  been 
having  quite  a  chat  about  the  world  one 
morning,  but  none  of  us  knew  much  about 
it  or  what  we  were  for.  We  knew  we  were 
dollars.  We  couldn't  help  knowing  that, 
for  it  was  plainly  stamped  on  each  of  us. 
Presently  some  one  laid  an  old,  dull-look- 
ing dollar  down  near  me,  and  knowing  it 
must  have  been  out  in  the  world,  I  ventured 
to  ask  it  what  we  were  for. 

"  'That  would  be  hard  to  answer,'  replied 
the  old  dollar.  6  You  are  going  out  in  the 
world  along  with  these  thousands  of  others, 
who  are  waiting  just  as  you  are  to  see  what 
will  happen  next.  I  have  been  out  a  very 
long  time,  as  you  can  see  from  my  date,  if 
indeed  I  am  not  worn  too  smooth  for  it  to 
be  discerned.' 

"  '  Tell  me  something  about  the  world, 
won't  you  ?'  I  asked.  1  You'll  learn  soon 
enough,'  replied  my  new  friend.  '  I  will 
tell  you  this  much  :  you  are  goiDg  to  be 
several  things, — a  missionary,  a  curse,  a  bless- 
ing, the  promoter  of  joy,  sorrow,  happiuess, 
and  woe,  but  you  have  no  control  over  your 
own  destiny.  You  might  as  well  lie  still  in 
the  pocket  you  happen  to  be  in,  for  your 
desires  will  never  be  consulted.  You  will 
be  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  a  tyrant,  for 
whom  you  have  been  created.  Your  sense 
of  justice  and  propriety  may  be  outraged  a 


324 


MARGERY'S  CHRISTMAS  DOLLAR. 


thousand  times,  but  you  may  as  well  keep 
still,  for  your  own  power — you  have  pow- 
er— is  not  under  your  own  control.  I  used 
to  ring  out  indignant  protests  sometimes 
when  I  was  new,  but  nobody  ever  listened 
to  me,  and  I  learned  to  keep  still.' 

"{Iam  very  glad  to  learn  that  much,'  I 
replied.  '  Perhaps  we  may  meet  again  some 
time,  and  exchange  stories.  You,  doubt- 
less, have  had  many  interesting  experiences 
in  your  travels  ? ' 

" 6  You  will  find,'  replied  my  silver 
friend,  'that  your  own  experience  will  be 
varied  and  interesting  enough  to  quite  fill 
one  existence ;  besides,  it  is  doubtful  if  we 
ever  meet  again,  for  I  am  going  to  be  made 
into  a  spoon.  I  was  given  last  week  with 
eleven  others  to  a  young  married  couple 
and  accompanied  by  a  card  which  read: 
"To  be  made  into  teaspoons."  I  am  here 
to  be  weighed  now.' 

" '  Shall  you  like  your  new '  

"  My  question  was  unfinished,  for  just 
then  I  was  abruptly  started  on  my  travels. 

"  That  was  five  years  ago.  I  am  an  old 
dollar  now,  and  full  of  experience.  I  have 
been  much  sought  after  by  old  and  young. 
I  have  been  permitted  to  bring  smiles  of  joy 
to  many  faces,  and  forced  to  bring  tears  of 
sorrow  to  many  others.  I  have  wonderful 
power,  but  can  only  use  it  at  the  will  of  my 
possessor.  I  am  yours  just  now,  and  it  is 
for  you  to  decide  whether  my  next  act  will 
be  a  good  one  or  a  bad  one.  I  have  done 
much  harm  as  well  as  much  good.  I  have 
been  in  thousands  of  pockets ;  in  the  per- 
fumed pockets  of  silken  robes  and  in  the 
dirty  pockets  of  street  gamins ;  in  the  pock- 
ets of  millionaires  and  in  the  pockets  of 
poor  washerwomen.  I  have  been  pressed 
in  the  palms  of  lazy  luxury  and  of  stern 
}  poverty.    I  have  lain  lazily  in  the  company 


of  others  in  the  possession  of  the  wealthy, 
and  I  have  been  the  last  dollar  of  the  poor, 
I  have  paid  for  a  single  meal  for  the  rich 
man  and  for  a  sack  of  flour  for  the  poor 
family.  I  have  paid  for  shoes  for  the  baby 
and  for  drinks  for  the  drunken  father.  I 
I  have  lain  in  the  church  collection  and 
the  bar-room  till.  I  have  been  given  in 
charity  and  stolen  by  the  pickpocket.  I 
have  stopped  a  moment  with  the  spend- 
thrift, and  been  imprisoned  in  the  miser's 
box.  I  have  helped  pay  the  minister's  sal- 
ary and  the  gambler's  debt,  the  workman's 
wages  and  the  perjurer's  hire,  the  honest 
debt  and  the  usurer's  demand. 

"I  have  bought  cigarettes  for  the  bad 
boy  one  day  and  a  school-book  for  the 
rosy-cheeked  school-girl  the  next;  flowers 
for  the  dead  baby's  coffin  one  day  and  the 
hangman's  halter  the  next;  perfume  for 
dainty  handkerchiefs  one  day  and  bread  for 
the  starving  the  next. 

"For  me,  men,  women,  and  children 
scramble  from  morning  till  night ;  for  me, 
the  hands  grow  horny,  the  brows  furrowed, 
and  the  hearts  weary;  but  I  cannot  stay 
with  my  captors  long. 

"  I  am  no  sooner  captured  than  away  I  go 
again.  No  pocket  is  deep  enough,  no  purse 
strong  enough,  no  clasp  strong  enough,  to 
keep  me  long.  For  me,  men  lie,  steal, 
fight,  and  murder.  In  the  headlong  pur- 
suit for  me,  man  runs  against  brother  and 
heeds  it  not ;  tramples  over  friends,  and 
knows  it  not,  and  at  last  catches  me,  only 
.  to  lose  me  and  take  up  the  chase  again.  In 
all  this  wide,  wide,  world  there  is  no 
hiding  place,  no  rest  for  the  rolling  dollar. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me, 
little  mistress  ?  What  is  your  behest,  my 
rosy-cheeked  queen?  Command,  and  -i 
obey." 


A  CHRISTMAS  GUEST. 


"  Please  let  me  think,"  said  Margery,  who 
had  been  all  ears  and  attention  during  the 
story,  "  have  you  ever  before  belonged  to  a 
little  girl?" 

"  Many  and  many  a  time,"  answered  the 
dollar.  "  I  rarely  stop  with  any  one  long, 
but  with  children  shortest  of  all.  I  have 
bought  dolls,  ribbons,  candies,  tops,  balls, 
and,  oh,  ever  so  many  things  for  boys  and 
girls." 

Margery  wanted  to  ask  it  if  this  was  a 
pleasant  part  of  its  mission,  but  she  was 
so  overcome  by  the  vast  and  varied  ex- 
perience she  had  just  listened  to  that  she 
hesitated.  She  did  wish  she  knew  whether 
the  goddess  smiled  or  frowned  when  grand- 
pa gave  her  the  dollar. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  foolish," 
ventured  Margery,  timidly,  "but  would  you 
mind  so  very  much  if  I  should  shut  you  up 
in  a  tin  box  and  keep  you  for  my  Christ- 
mas money  ?  " 

The  face  of  the  goddess  smiled  and  smiled 
until  it  shown  with  the  silvery  light  of  a 
brand  new  dollar,  as  it  replied : 

"  I  should  like  it  above  all  things.  Noth- 
ing gives  me  so  much  happiness  as  to  bring 
joy  and  sunshine  to  the  hearts  of  the  chil- 
dren. By  all  means  let  me  stay  with  you 
till  Christmas." ' 

Margery  kissed  the  face  whose  lips  ceas- 
ing to  move,  indicated  that  the  story  was 
done,  and  taking  her  tin  box  from  the 
bureau  beside  the  bed  she  laid  it  in  and 
shut  the  Jid. 

****** 

"  Margie,  Margie,"  called  her  mother, 
and  the  sleepy  little  girl  opened  her  eyes ; 
"  Come,  Margery,  breakfast  is  ready,  and  I 
want  you  to  go  on  an  errand  for  me  before 
school-time." 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  replied  Margery,  sitting 


up  and  rubbing  her  eyes  ;  then  as  the  mem- 
ory of  the  dollar's  story  came  to  her  she 
exclaimed:  "Oh,  mamma,  such  a  strange 
thing  happened  to  me  last  night.  The  dol- 
lar grandpa  gave  me  talked  to  me,  and  told 
me  its  history." 

"  Why,  child,  what  do  you  mean?  "  asked 
her  mother,  looking  to  see  if  she  were 
really  awake.    "  Where  is  your  money  ? " 

44 1  put  it  in  my  tin  box  with  the  lock  and 
key,  and  I'm  going  to  keep  it  for  Christ- 
mas.   It  said  1  might." 

"  1  guess  you  are  dreaming  yet,"  answer- 
ed her  mother;  "come,  jump  up  now,  or 
you'll  be  late  for  breakfast." 

"  Indeed,  mamma,  it  could  not  have  been 
a  dream,"  said  Margery,  as  she  sprung  out 
of  bed,  but  as  she  stepped  on  the  floor  the 
dollar  fell  out  of  the  folds  of  her  night  dress 
and  rolled  across  the  floor.  That  wakened 
her  completely  and  she  understood  it  all. 
Her  mamma  laughed,  and  so  did  she. 

"  I  don't  care ;  it  was  a  good  dream  any- 
way, and  I'm  going  to  save  the  money  for 
Christmas,  just  the  same.  I'm  sure  it  is 
here  this  time,"  she  said,  as  she  turned  the 
key  in  the  tin  box  and  shut  the  bureau 
drawer. 


(Award ed  Twenty  Dollar  Prize.) 
A  CHRISTMAS  GUEST. 

RICHARD  V.  CARPENTER. 
Age  18  years. 

JTOHNNY  Harney  stood  by  the  gate  in 
0)  front  of  the  little  white  farm  house 
where  he  lived,  and  watched  the  twilight 
darken  into  Christmas  eve. 

There  were  trees  about  the  house,  but  a 
little  ways  beyond,  the  road  ran  down  to  a 
great  stretch  of  lowland  that  was  covered 


326 


A  CHRISTMAS  GUEST. 


in  the  summer  by  tall,  wiry  marsh  grass 
and  by  the  flowers  that  love  damp  places, 
and  where  countless  little  green  frogs  hop- 
ped about  among  the  hummocks. 

Beyond  this  was  the  lake, — one  great  field 
of  wild  rice,  with  here  and  there  a  silver  net- 
work, where  the  twilight  lingered  on  some 
open  water. 

Way  down  at  the  foot  of  the  lake  the 
lights  at  the  club  house  gleamed  brightly, 
for  to-morrow  was  Christmas,  and  all  the 
sportsmen  were  up  from  the  city  for  a 
Christmas  dinner  on  ducks  of  their  own 
shooting. 

John  Harney  was  a  good  boy,  and  seldom 
discontented  or  out  of  sorts,  but  when  he 
thought  of  all  the  nice  guns  that  stood 
along  the  racks  in  the  sitting  room,  and  the 
great  bunches  of  ducks  and  squirrels  that 
lay  in  the  kitchen  of  the  club  house  he  did 
feel  just  a  little  bit  covetous. 

For  that  was  John's  greatest  sorrow.  He 
didn't  have  a  gun. 

Often  when  his  chores  were  done,  he 
would  take  the  shabby  little  square-ended 
boat,  and  row  down  into  the  river  to  watch 
the  hunters. 

He  would  hear  the  guns  sound  way  off 
across  the  lake,  and  a  flock  of  ducks  would 
come  flying  over,  growing  less  at  every 
place  where  some  canvas-coated  sportsman 
waited  among  the  grass. 

It  was  a  sad  sort  of  pleasure  John  got 
from  this.  But,  then,  a  gun  costs  a  great 
deal  of  money  for  a  farmer's  boy,  and  the 
price  of  Tommy's  spotted  wooden  horse 
and  Jimmy's  trumpet  and  all  the  other 
presents  wouldn't  nearly  have  bought  one. 

It  was  growing  colder  all  the  time,  and 
even  through  his  thick  new  mittens  John's 
hands  were  beginning  to  feel  numb ;  so  he 
started  to  go  in  to  the  warm  kitchen  fire. 


But  then — a  long  drawn  cry  came  faintly 
across  the  lake : 
"  Help  ! " 

It  sends  such  a  thrill  of  excitement  a-ting- 
ling  down  one's  nerves — that  call  for  aid. 

He  knew  in  an  instant  why  the  person 
had  called. 

"Somebody's  got  lost  in  the  grass!"  he 
thought,  as  he  hurried  down  to  the  lake ; 
"  he'd  better  not  try  to  stay  out  all  through 
this  kind  of  a  night !  " 

It  took  a  long  while  to  reach  the  place 
from  where  the  shouts  had  come  and  to  get 
the  hunter  to  the  shore,  for  the  poor  fellow, 
numbed  and  exhausted  and  lost  among  the 
great  fields  of  grass,  had  dropped  the  oars, 
and  sat  huddled  in  the  stern,  yielding  to 
that  drowsiness  which  is  so  often  a  fatal 
one. 

But  he  soon  came  to  when  John  had 
got  him  to  the  house,  and  what  a  jolty 
Christmas  guest  he  was  then — almost  as 
good  as  if  Santa  Claus  himself  had  tied  his 
deer  to  the  fence  and  staid  with  them  all 
the  evening  ! 

With  the  little  Harneys  clustered  about 
the  stranger's  knee,  listening  open-mouthed 
to  his  wondrous  stories,  the  father  leaning 
against  the  wall  smoking  his  pipe,  and  the 
mother  softly  rocking  baby's  cradle — all 
lighted  by  the  glow  of  the  firelight,  it  was 
a  pretty  scene  to  see — one  that  the  sprites 
of  Christmas  love  to  look  upon. 

And  when  the  Christmas  guest  was  done, 
the  mother  told  of  that  strange  star  of  won- 
drous beauty  that  shone  another  Christmas 
night,  above  the  manger  where  the  infant 
King  lay  sleeping — so  long  ago,  and  so  far 
away — in  Bethlehem  of  Judea. 

And  the  father,  looking  backward  to  his 
earlier  years,  bethought  him  of  a  story 
altogether  new — one  that  had  slipped  his 


A  CHRISTMAS  GUEST. 


327 


memory  until  now  (as  things  of  such  slight 
import  will)  about  a  fierce,  gaunt  wolf  of 
monstrous  size  that  he,  Putnam-like,  had 
slain  in  a  cave  by  the  light  of  its  own  eyes. 

But  John,  of  all  these  tales,  heard  not  a 
word.  What  were  these  childish  stories  of 
bears  and  wolves  and  Indians  to  the  sight  of 
the  beautiful  gun,  with  its  smooth,  round 
barrels  and  shapely  stock,  that  belonged  to 
the  Christmas  guest,  and  that  stood  in  the 
corner  by  the  door? 

The  stranger,  as  he  gazed  around  at  his 
little  audience,  might  have  noticed  where 
the  boy's  eyes  were  wandering,  but  if  he 
did  he  said  nothing,  and  kept  right  on  with 
his  stories. 

Santa  Claus  must  have  been  very  nearly 
through  with  his  gift-giving  when  the  lit- 
tle Harneys  went  to  bed,  each  with  a  bright 
new  silver  dollar  clasped  in  his  little  fat 
hand;  and  the  guest  turned  to  John. 

"  I  won't  forget,  my  boy,  what  you  have 
done  for  me,"  he  said  solemnly.  u  They 
would  have  found  me  there,  all  cold  and 
still  among  the  grass,  like  they  did  poor 
Phillips  last  winter,  and  my  Christmas  day 
would  have  been  at  the  home  of  Him  whose 
birth  it  celebrates.  I  thank  you  now,  and 
perhaps  before  long  I  may  be  able  to  show 
my  gratitude  in  a  better  way."  And  any 
one  could  see  that  he  meant  what  he  said. 

Then  the  lamps  were  put  out,  and  the 
dream-folk  came  to  take  the  place  of  the 
Christmas  sprites,  while  the  wind  whistled 
around  the  corners  and  old  Jack  Frost 
peered  in  through  the  green  shutters ;  and 
all  the  fields  and  roads,  and  the  woods  and 
lowlands,  took  on  a  covering  of  snowy 
whiteness. 

Long  before  the  first  happy  city  toddler 
had  rushed  to  his  stocking  to  find  what 
Santa  Claus  had  left,   even  before  that 


merry  old  gentleman  and  his  fleet-footed 
reindeer  had  reached  their  icy  northern 
home,  the  Harneys  were  awake  and  break- 
fast was  on  the  table. 

It  was  a  bounteous  breakfast,  too,  for  that 
family ;  because,  although  the  stranger  did 
not  know  it,  or  at  least  did  not  show  that 
he  knew  it,  all  the  good  things  that  were  to 
have  been  for  the  Christmas  dinner  were 
brought  forth  (to  the  great  joy  of  the  little 
Harneys,  who  could  hardly  have  existed 
till  noon  without  them,)  and  were  placed 
before  the  Christmas  guest. 

Soon  after,  when  thanks  and  merry 
Christmas  wishes  had  been  given  time  and 
again,  the  hunter  was  obliged  to  depart  ;  for, 
as  he  told  them,  his  friends  at  the  club 
house  would  be  frightened  at  his  absence  ; 
so  he  and  John  walked  down  to  the  land- 
ing together. 

"You  must  visit  me  at  the  house,"  he 
said,  as  he  took  the  boy's  hand  in  parting, 
and  then,  stepping  into  his  canoe,  he  was 
soon  rapidly  getting  out  of  sight. 

"  Oh,  mister,  wait,  wait ;  you  forgot  some- 
thing ! "  called  a  childish  voice  from  behind, 
and  one  of  the  little  Harneys  came  running 
down  the  road  as  fast  as  his  short  legs 
could  carry  him,  with  the  stranger's  gun. 

"  Come  back  sir ;  you  have  left  your 
gun !  "  shouted  John,  taking  the  precious 
weapon  in  his  hands  and  waving  it  above 
his  head. 

But  the  Christmas  guest  came  back  not 
a  stroke.  He  only  rose  to  his  feet,  and, 
placing  his  hands  so  as  to  form  a  trumpet, 
he  shouted  something  back — something  that 
made  John's  face  radiant  with  delight,  and 
his  heart  almost  burst  with  gratitude. 

"I  didn't  forget  it,"  came  faintly  to  the 
shore.  "  It's  yours.  Merry  Christmas  !  " 
And  the  little  canoe  and  the  Christmas 
guest  were  lost  to  sight  among  the  grass. 


32S 


CHRISTMAS  OJV  AN~  ISLAND. 


(Awaedbd  Five  Dollar  Prize.) 

CHRISTMAS  ON  AN  ISLAND. 


MABEL  BLACKWELL. 
Age  11  years  and  5  months. 

Vp  AST  winter  a  family  were  traveling  to 
JUL  India  to  spend  Christmas  with  their 
brother.  When  they  started  the  weather 
was  so  delightful  that  the  children  amused 
themselves,  by  playing  on  the  deck  and 
looking  at  their  faces  in  the  water,  which 
was  perfectly  calm  and  smooth  as  a  mirror. 
Not  even  a  ripple  could  be  seen.  Sudden- 
ly, after  they  had  been  sailing  several  days, 
one  night  the  little  girl  noticed  confusion. 
She  looked  up  and  saw  the  captain  ordering 
the  sailors  to  make  everything  secure,  for 
he  could  see  a  storm  approaching.  Sure 
enough,  at  midnight  they  were  alarmed  by 
a  terrible  gale,  which  was  blowing  and 
rocking  the  ship  like  a  cradle.  The  storm 
continued  many  hours,  until  at  last  the  ves- 
sel was  thrown  against  a  rock  and  wrecked. 
All  the  crew  perished.  The  family  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  on  a  piece  of  the  broken 
vessel,  and,  after  drifting  on  the  water  until 
they  were  exhausted  and  nearly  dead,  the 
wind  fortunately  blew  them  upon  an  island, 
where  they  all  knelt  down  and  thanked 
God  for  their  deliverance  from  death.  The 
father  provided  a  shelter  as  best  he  could 
with  the  leaves  and  trees  which  he  found 
growing  on  the  island.  They  supported 
themselves  by  birds  and  fruit  which  they 
found  there. 

They  gave  up  all  hope  of  the  happy 
Christmas  they  had  looked  forward  to.  Of 
course  they  could  not  expect  to  celebrate 
Christmas  at  all. 

One  evening  when  the  family  were  talk- 
ing about  their  misfortunes,  little  Maud  ex- 


claimed :  "  Oh,  mamma,  we  are  like  the 
children  before  there  was  any  Christmas. 
I  wonder  if  they  had  any  Santa  Claus? 
But  we  feel  worse  because  we  expected  to 
have  such  a  lovely  Christmas  this  year,  and 
now  we  won't  have  such  a  good  one  as  we 
had  last  year." 

The  father  was  bound  they  should  have 
some  kind  of  a  Christmas,  so  he  went  all 
over  the  island  until  he  succeeded  in  get- 
ting a  large  bird  and  gathering  the  best 
fruits. 

Now  the  brother  in  India  thought  he 
would  like  to  eat  a  Christmas  dinner 
with  his  relations  in  America  again,  and  so 
he  started  out.  But  his  vessel  was  badly 
injured  by  the  same  storm  which  they  had 
encountered,  and  had  to  be  repaired.  So 
the  captain  stopped  at  the  same  island.  The 
brother  went  ashore,  and  there  saw  the  rude 
house  and  went  up  to  it.  Imagine  his 
surprise  at  seeing  his  relatives,  and  their 
astonishment  and  thankfulness  at  seeing 
him. 

The  family  told  hiir.  how  they  had  started 
to  spend  Christmas  with  him  in  India, 
and  he  told  them  that  he  had  intended 
to  go  to  America  an  "*  spend  Christmas  with 
them. 

You  see  both  intended  to  have  a  family 
gathering,  but  not  on  an  unknown  island. 
However,  they  made  the  best  of  it.  The 
brother  fetched  provisions  from  the  vessel 
and  boxes  full  of  presents  which  he  had 
brought  for  them. 

Maud's  mother  cooked  a  bountiful  Christ- 
mas dinner  after  all,  which  they  enjoyed 
much  more  because  they  had  given  up  all 
hope  of  having  one. 

They  soon  went  back  to  America,  but 
they  never  forgot  the  Christmas  on  the 
island. 


CAwakded  Ten  Dollar  Prize.) 

A  CHKISTMAS  DKEAM. 


IVA  CLARK. 
Age  13  years. 

p^HE  tale  is  but  a  truthful  dream 
.     I  essay  now  to  tell ; 
Oh,  that  the  gift  of  song  were  mine, 
That  I  might  tell  it  well. 

If  I  were  skilled  in  fairy  lore 
I'd  bring  some  magic  art, 

And  o'er  my  hearers  weave  a  spell— 
A  charm  o'er  each  heart. 


'Twas  Christmas  eve — I  fell  asleep, 

A-nodding  in  my  chair, 
And  elfin  ±olk  and  fairy  sprites 

Came  m  and  found  me  there. 


One  drove  a  team  of  lightning  bugs, 
One  sailed  on  thistle-down, 

A  milk- weed  wand  was  in  her  h.m  id, 
On  her  head  a  sea-foam  crown. 


OF  THE 
UHIVEHj»irr  OF  ILLINOIS 


A  CHRISTMAS  DREAM. 


331 


Her  dress  was  made  of  roses  red, 

The  fairest  ever  seen, 
All  sparkling  o'er  with  pearly  dew, 

She  was  the  witches'  queen. 

They  danced  in  circles  'round  the  room, 
And  mocked  me  in  my  chair — 

Pelted  me  with  flakes  of  snow, 
Threw  butterflies  on  my  hair. 

The  hour  grew  late.    From  fairy  cups 
They  sipped  bright  cowslip  wine, 

And  all  made  fun  of  the  sleeping  guest 
Who  would  not  wake  to  dine. 

"  Kris  Kringle  comes !  Kris  Kringle  comes! 

Let's  lead  him  to  the  chair 
Where  the  weary  child  has  taken  rest 

With  butterflies  in  her  hair." 

'Twas  thus  spoke  up  a  midget  wight, 

Who  took  a  holly-leaf, 
And  passing  o'er  my  forehead,  cried: 

"All  woe  depart  and  grief!" 

And  then  the  fairies'  gracious  queen 
With  the  crown  of  pure  sea-foam 

Touched  me  with  her  magic  wand — 
Welcomed  me  to  her  home: 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  child  of  earth ! 

To  you  one  boon  is  given ; 
Seek  what  you  want,  it  matters  not — 

Anything  under  heaven. 

"  Kris  Kringle  comes  in  one  short  hour, 
Think  well;  one  gift  is  thine ; 

Beauty,  power,  or  magic  art, 
Or  wealth  from  golden  mine. 

\ "  We'll  leave  you  now  our  king  to  meet ; 
j    His  chariot's  on  the  road, — 
Come,  dragon-flies  and  lightning-bugs, 
And  help  him  with  his  load." 


Away  they  flew — and  now  to  think 

What  shall  my  prayer  be  ? 
Shall  I  seek  for  power  to  move  the  earth, 

Or  to  ride  or  walk  the  sea  ? 

Beauty,  wealth — what  shall  I  ask  ? 

Talent,  pomp  or  grace  ? 
Shall  my  boon  be  golden  mine? 

Shall  they  call  me  fair  of  face  ? 

Ah  !  beauty  does  not  last — let  mine 

Be  gift  of  greater  power. 
Shall  my  wish  be  peace  and  joy 

To  fill  each  passing  hour  ? 

Or  shall  I  seek  the  power  to  heal, 

To  cure  both  pain  and  grief  ? 
Shall  I  find  a  balm  for  every  ill, 

For  every  wound  relief? 

Oh !  it  would  be  a  heaven  indeed 

To  have  no  fights  nor  wars, 
And  keep  all  troubles  bottled  up, 

Labeled  "  Family  Jars." 

With  untold  wealth,  I'd  feed  the  poor, 
Build,  churches,  schools ;  and  then 

We'd  have  no  need  of  scaffolds  high — 
No  pale  and  doomed  men. 

But  I've  heard  it  said  if  trees  were  gold 
That  some  would  cry  for  bread. 

What  shall  I  ask  ?    The  time  is  up. 
<£  Back  in  an  hour,"  they  said. 

Tramp,  tramp,  they  come,  the  witches  all- 
Kris  Kringle's  chariot  green, 

Bumble-bees  and  dragon-flies, 
And  the  airy,  fairy  queen. 

They  lead  the  king  to  mossy  throne, 

While  merry  blue-bells  ring ; 
Then  one  and  all  join  in  and  shout — 

Gaily,  merrily  sing: 


332 


A  WESTERN  CHRISTMAS. 


"  King  out,  ring  out,  ye  blue-bells ! 

Kris  Kringle's  here ;  come  all 
And  join  the  merry  chorus ; 

This  is  the  fairies'  ball ! 

"  Sing  out,  sing  out,  ye  witches ! 

And  ring,  ye  blue-bells,  ring ! 
Come,  fairies  from  the  woodlands, 

And  greet  the  Christmas  king!" 

They  sing,  but  never  weary; 

The  night  is  nigh  the  day, 
The  east  is  growing  golden 

And  fairies  must  away. 

But  ere  they  go  they  whisper: 
"  Child  of  earth,  make  known 

Thy  wish  to  great  Kris  Kringle 
And  greet  him  on  his  throne." 

"  Anything  under  heaven," 

The  little  witches  said. 
My  mind  is  weary  thinking, 

And  puzzled  is  my  head. 

"  Whence  do  you  come,  my  little  maid  ? " 

Pleasant  is  his  voice, 
And  now  heyday !  a  thought  is  here ; 

Rejoice,  my  friends,  rejoice ! 

"  Whence  do  you  come,  my  little  maid, 

Butterflies  in  your  hair?" 
"  From  Chicago,  sir,  and,  please, 

I  want  the  world's  fair." 


(Awarded  Ten  Dollar  Prize.) 
A   WESTERN  CHRISTMAS. 

GEORGE  WHITEFORT. 
Aged  13  years. 

IN  the  western  part  of  Montana,  about 
f  two  miles  and  a  half  north  of  Boulder 
valley,  on  the  Little  river,  there  lived  a 


woman  named  Hayes.  She  had  two  boys 
and  a  girl.  The  girl  was  named  Lucy,  and 
the  oldest  boy  was  named  Frank,  and  the 
youngest  boy  was  named  John.  Frank  was 
fifteen  years  old,  John  six,  and  Lucy  was 
eleven.  Their  father  had  come  from  New 
York  because  he  had  the  consumption,  and 
his  doctors  had  advised  him  to  go  out  west. 
He  did  so,  but  he  only  grew  worse,  and  he 
soon  died.  The  family  had  only  a  little 
money,  and  they  made  their  living  by  farm- 
ing. Frank  did  most  of  the  work,  and 
raised  a  few  sheep,  a  horse,  and  a  cow.  The 
plentiful  natural  grass  supplied  them  with 
enough  hay  for  winter.  It  was  nearing 
Christmas,  and  the  two  smaller  children 
looked  to  what  they  were  going  to  get  in 
the  way  of  presents.  Johnny  wanted  a  sled, 
so  Frank  made  him  one  and  hid  it  under 
some  hay  in  the  barn.  Lucy  wanted  a 
dress,  of  course ;  all  girls  want  something 
like  that.  Frank  wanted  a  turkey,  and  he 
meant  to  have  one.  He  remembered  hav- 
ing seen  some  beaver-dams  the  last  time  he 
was  at  the  river,  and  when  he  went  again 
he  took  some  traps  to  catch  some  of  them. 
In  the  course  of  a  week  he  caught  two  beav- 
ers and  a  muskrat,  and  he  shot  a  good  many 
squirrels.  He  sold  the  beaver  and  muskrat 
skins  at  the  town,  and  bought  enough  cloth 
to  make  a  dress  for  his  mother  and  Lucy, 
and  a  few  things  needed  at  home. 

The  next  day  being  the  day  before  Christ- 
mas, Frank  took  his  gun  and  started  to  kill 
wild  turkeys.  He  hunted  all  the  morning, 
killing  two  squirrels.  About  noon  he  saw 
some  fresh  turkey  tracks  and  followed  them 
cautiously  over  the  hills  and  dales,  looking 
ahead  for  fear  they  might  see  him  first,  and 
escape.  He  had  traveled  about  an  hour, 
when  he  heard,  "  Gobble !  Gobble  ! "  and 
he  saw  seven  turkeys  sitting  on  a  limb  of  an 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BOX  AND  WHAT  CAME  OJb  IT. 


oak  tree.  He  stole  nearer  and  took  aim 
and  fired  the  right-hand  barrel,  and  then, 
as  they  rose,  he  fired  the  left-hand  barrel, 
and  then  he  looked  to  see  how  many  he  had 
killed.  He  had  killed  one  and  broken  the 
wing  of  another.  Now,  Frank  had  been  a 
member  of  a  juvenile  humane  society  in 
his  old  home,  so  he  hastened  to  put  the 
turkey  to  death  by  cutting  off  its  head  with 
his  pocket  knife,  but  the  turkey,  not  appre- 
ciating his  humane  treatment,  fought  sav- 
agely, and  gave  him  some  bad  scratches  and 
brnises  before  he  killed  it.  He  then  gath- 
ered up  his  game,  and  threw  the  turkeys 
over  his  shoulder,  and  started  for  home, 
arriving  safely,  and  had  his  mother  dress 
them. 

That  evening  he  went  out  into  the  woods 
and  cut  down  a  small  cedar  tree  that  he  had 
seen  while  hunting.  This  he  brought  into 
the  house  and  stood  up  in  the  corner  of  the 
sitting-room.  He  then  sat  down  to  supper, 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  eating  he 
had  Johnny  and  Lucy  string  popcorn  on 
strings,  and  these  his  mother  hung  on  the 
tree ;  she  also  made  some  molasses  candy 
and  put  nuts  in  it,  the  nuts  Johnny  and 
Lucy  had  gathered  in  the  fall.  As  it  was 
getting  late,  Johnny  and  Lucy  went  to  bed, 
then  Frank  retired,  and  as  soon  as  his 
mother  had  gone  to  bed  he  got  the  dresses 
and  put  them  on  a  chair  near  the  Christmas 
tree.  He  then  went  to  bed,  and  was  fast 
asleep  as  soon  as  his  head  touched  the  pillow. 

When  Frank  woke  up  the  next  morning 
he  found  a  muffler,  a  cap,  and  a  pair  of  mit- 
tens for  himself,  and  Johnny  found  the 
same  things  for  himself,  only  he  had  a  sled, 
too.  As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  Lucy 
helped  her  mother  wash  the  dishes.  Then 
Frank  took  Johnny  and  Lucy  on  the  sled 
and  drew  them  to  the  coasting  hill,  where 


333 


they  coasted  as  well  as  if  they  were  on  a 
toboggan  slide.  Then  they  made  a  snow 
man,  and  knocked  him  down  again  with 
snow-balls. 

Dinner  was  now  ready,  and  they  went 
into  the  house  to  eat  it.  They  had  the 
largest  turkey  of  the  pair  Frank  had  shot. 
It,  with  cranberry  sauce  and  mince  pies, 
composed  their  dinner.  It  was  a  merry 
Christmas.  They  had  the  other  turkey  on 
New  Year's  day. 

The  moral  of  this  story  is  that  if  you 
want  a  merry  Christmas  and  a  happy  New 
Year,  work  for  it. 


(Awarded  Ten  Dollar  Prize.) 

THE  CHRISTMAS  BOX  AND  WHAT 
CAME  OF  IT. 

SADIE  PAUL. 
Age  13  years. 

"/g*IRLS,  I'm  going  to  have  a  Christmas 
box  in  my  room  to-night,  even  if  it 
is  against  the  rules."  The  speaker  was  a 
young  girl  of  about  fifteen  years  of  age, 
and  her  audience  were  others  of  ages  rang- 
ing from  thirteen  to  seventeen  years. 

They  were  gathered  around  a  bright  fire 
in  one  of  the  class-rooms  of  a  young  ladies' 
boarding  school  in  a  suburb  of  one  of  our 
largest  cities. 

This  speech  was  hailed  with  smothered 
applause,  for  the  rules  forbade  any  such 
loud  noises  as  would  be  caused  by  this  oc- 
casion. 

"  How  are  we  going  to  manage  to  get  it 
there?"  whispered  Dora  Richardson  to 
Cora  Dean,  the  one  who  had  proposed  the 
frolic. 

"  Oh  !  I'll  meet  you  all  in  the  east  cor- 
ridor over  the  register  and  then  we  will  go 


334 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BOX  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT. 


on  to  my  room  ;  the  bed  will  be  our  table, 
and  as  I've  nothing  better  to  offer,  you  will 
have  to  be  satisfied  with  that." 

This  occurred  the  day  before  Christmas, 
and  they  had  arranged  to  meet  that  night 
instead  of  Christmas  night,  for  their  own 
reasons. 

The  principal,  Miss  Evans,  while  sitting 
in  her  room  that  day,  was  startled  by  a 
loud  ring  at  the  door-bell  and,  rising,  stood 
waiting  for  her  visitor,  whoever  it  might  be. 

Lizzie,  the  servant,  came  giggling  into 
the  room  a  few  moments  later,  and  told  her 
mistress  that  a  beggar  girl  stood  at  the  door 
and  wished  to  see  the  lady  of  the  house. 

Miss  Evans,  thinking  it  rather  strange 
that  a  beggar  should  be  so  polite,  hastened 
to  the  door,  and  instead  of  seeing  a  bold 
girl,  nearly  fell  over  the  bundle  of  rags  in 
the  doorway. 

"  Couldn't  I  have  something  for  the  chil- 
dren at  home  to  eat,  and  for  mamma,  who 
is  sick  ? "  sobbed  the  child,  and  Miss  Evans, 
who  had  a  kind  heart,  for  all  her  strict 
rules,  brought  her  in  and  placed  her  by  the 
fire. 

The  girls,  who  were  nearly  all  in  their 
rooms  at  the  time,  had  not  been  told  of  this, 
and  Miss  Evans,  knowing  there  were  no 
spare  beds  in  the  house,  concluded  to  have 
the  little  girl  sleep  in  Cora's  bed,  and  tell 
her  of  the  fact  at  the  supper  hour.  But 
somehow  she  must  have  forgotten  it,  for 
Cora  remained  ignorant. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  whispering 
going  on  all  evening,  and  when  all  the  girls 
assembled  over  the  register  in  the  east  cor- 
ridor it  was  not  a  very  quiet  group  that 
trooped  down  the  hall  to  Cora's  room,  and 
it  is  quite  a  wonder  that  Miss  Evans  didn't 
awake. 

They  were  all  safely  in  the  room  at  last, 


a  cloth  pinned  ever  the  window  and  tran- 
som, when,  imagine  their  surprise,  upon 
lighting  a  match,  to  find  a  strange  child 
sleeping  upon  the  bed. 

It  would  have  taken  a  less  nervous  child 
to  sleep  through  the  noise  which  followed 
this  discovery,  and  she  of  course  awakened, 
more  surprised  than  they,  to  find  herself 
surrounded  by  a  bevy  of  girls  asking  all 
sorts  of  questions ;  receiving  no  answer 
from  the  bewildered  child,  they  stopped 
their  talking  till  she  had  time  to  remember 
where  she  was  and  how  she  came  there. 

When  she  was  a  little  over  the  perplex- 
ity her  sudden  awakening  had  caused,  they 
asked  her  who  she  was,  where  she  came 
from,  how  she  came  in  Cora's  bed,  and  to 
all  these  she  answered  hesitatingly :  "  My 
name  is  Ella  Williams,  and  my  mother  and 

the  rest  of  the  children  live  on  street," 

here  she  burst  into  tears,  as  she  remem- 
bered what  she  had  asked  for — eatables  for 
the  children  and  her  poor  sick  mother. 

When  she  told  the  girls  the  cause  of  her 
distress,  a  bright  look  came  over  Cora's 
face  as  she  said  : 

"Girls,  I've  got  the  idea!  I'm  going  to  give 
Ella  and  the  rest  of  her  family  my  Christ- 
mas box  instead  of  our  eating  it  ourselves 
and  breaking  one  of  the  rules,  and  here's  a 
dollar  to  begin  with,  and  I  know  all  you 
girls  will  give  something,"  and  around  went 
Cora  with  a  hat,  and  down  into  it  tell  all 
the  change  the  girls  had  witli  them. 

"  Now,  I'm  going  to  hunt  in  my  closet 
for  some  of  my  best  old  clothes  for  Ella  her- 
self;" and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word, 
she  dived  down  into  the  old  closet  and 
brought  out  enough  clothes  to  lust  Ella  for 
a  year,  anyway. 

The  girls  then  scattered  to  their  various 
rooms  and  Ella  staid  with  Cor    hat  night ; 


BOY'S  CHRISTMAS  PRIZE. 


335 


but  the  next  day,  bright  and  early,  they 
went  down  to  Miss  Evans'  room  and  told 
all  that  had  happened ;  of  how  they  were 
going  to  disobey  one  of  the  rules,  and  of  the 
contributions,  and  the  old  clothes,  and  all. 
Miss  Evans  was  well  pleased  with  her 
pupils  and  added  largely  to  both  the  clothes 
and  to  the  contribution  in  money. 

During  the  morning  the  girls  sent  for  the 
largest  sleigh  in  the  stable  and  all  flocked 
into  it,  carrying  bundles,  and  rode  to  Ella's 
poor  room  in  the  tenement  house. 

Her  mother  had  been  very  much  worried 
about  her,  but  when  she  saw  the  girls  com- 
ing in  with  the  bundles,  boxes  and  baskets, 
she  felt  very  thankful  for  the  return  of  Ella 
and  the  happy  Christmas  given  her  by  the 
young  ladies  of  the  "  boarding-school." 


(Five  Dollar  Prize.) 
ROY'S  CHRISTMAS  PRIZE. 

EDDIE  KOCHFOKD. 
Age  8  years. 

"  MOW  is  this,  Roy  ? "  Mr.  Smith  asked, 
f&[  as  his  boy  came  whistling  into  his 
office  on  the  eve  of  Christmas.  "  Here  is  a 
note  from  Miss  Brown.  She  says  that  for 
the  last  four  weeks  you  have  had  very  poor 
lessons,  and  that  on  two  occasions  she  found 
you  fast  asleep  when  you  should  have  been 
studying  your  spelling." 

"Well,  father,  I  think  Miss  Brown  is 
unreasonable ;  yes,  I  think  she  is  unkind. 
Does  she  think  a  boy  can  waste  his  time  in 
studying  spelling  when,  by  giving  a  little 
of  my  time  to  a  Christmas  story,  I  may  win 
a  prize  from  the  Daily  News  ? 

"  Just  imagine  your  son  with  $5  in  his 
pocket — $5  that  he  can  call  his  very  own  ? 
Let  me  see  what  I  will  buy.    Now,  father, 


you  need  not  teJl  the  story  of  the  milkmaid 
with  the  pail  of  milk  on  her  head.  I  have 
heard  that  story  so  often  that  it  seems  old. 
Maids  don't  carry  pails  of  milk  on  their 
heads  any  more  ;  perhaps  that  is  the  rea- 
son they  don't  print  that  story  in  the  spell- 
ing-book any  more. 

"  I  was  going  to  tell  you  what  I  shall  buy 
if  I  win  a  prize ;  but  I  see  by  your  smiles 
that  I  am  building  castles  in  the  air.  Well, 
I  am  not  the  only  boy  in  Chicago  who  is 
building  a  castle  with  the  same  $5. 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  that  I  will  not  get 
my  money  until  after  Christmas.  You  see 
if  I  did  I  would  be  expected  to  buy  candy 
and  nuts  for  the  other  children. 

"  The  first  thing  I  will  do  when  I  get  my 
prize  will  be  to  get  it  changed  into  silver, 
so  that  I  can  rattle  it  in  my  pocket." 


(Five  Dollar  Prize.) 
SANTA  CLAUS'  REINDEER. 

LOUIS  P.  CONWAY. 
Age  11  years  and  7  months. 

TWERY  many  years  ago,  dear  little  read- 
llf  ers,  long  before  your  papas  and  mam- 
mas— ay,  your  great-grandparents — came 
upon  this  earth,  the  great,  good  Lord  looked 
down  one  winter's  day  on  the  anniversary 
of  His  birthday,  and  saw  the  little  children 
repeating  their  morning  devotions.  "  Ah," 
thought  He,  "  my  little  ones  must  be  re- 
warded for  their  love  for  me.''  He  then 
called  the  jolly  old  saint;  perhaps  you  have 
heard  his  name,  and  said  to  him  :  "  You 
shall  from  now  on  dwell  upon  the  earth, 
and  reward  the  little  children  on  my  birth- 
day. You  shall  live  in  the  northern  palace, 
and  I  shall  give  you  a  sleigh,  but  you  must 
select  the  animals  you  wish  to  draw  you." 


336 


PS TCHOL OGY  AND  MINERAL OGY. 


Then  he  was  led  to  a  great  apartmeift  in 
which  were  kept  all  the  animals  that  have 
existed  since  the  days  of  Adam.  But  Saint 
Nicholas  (that  was  the  saint's  name)  was 
sadiy  puzzled.  He  must  select  only  those 
animals  who  would  ever  faithfully  serve  his 
Master — the  Lord.  So  he  said  :  "  Dear 
Lord,  give  me  three  days  in  which  to  make 
my  decision."  "  Well  said,"  the  Lord  an- 
swered, "  the  time  shall  be  granted." 

That  night  there  appeared  to  Saint  Nich- 
olas an  angel,  who  said :  "  Takest  thou  a 
child  from  earth.  His  selection  shall  be 
thine." 

Then  Saint  Nicholas  took  from  earth  a 
little  child  and  flew  up  to  the  apartment  of 
the  Lord. 

"  Dearest  Lord,"  said  he,  "  I  have  come 
to  make  my  selection."  When  they  en- 
tered the  animals'  apartment  the  lion 
growled,  and  the  elephant  swung  his  pon- 
derous trunk,  and  all  of  the  animals  seemed 
displeased.  Did  I  say  all?  Oh,  no;  for 
suddenly  from  out  the  group  sprung  six 
lovely  little  reindeer,  and,  laying  their 
heads  near  the  child,  looked  up  lovingly  at 
him. 

"  These,"  said  Saint  Nicholas,  "  shall,  be 
my  choice." 

And,  dear  little  readers,  you  may,  if  you 
listen,  hear  the  jingle  of  their  little  bells  on 
any  Christmas  eve. 


(Awaeded  Twenty  Dollar  Pe.ze.)] 
PSYCHOLOGY  AND  MINERALOGY. 

ALIDA  C.  WOOLSEY. 
Age  17  years  and  11  months. 

IT  was  Christmas  night.  Outside  the 
t  snow  lay  white  and  still.  Nature  was 
at  rest,  as  befitted  this  day  of  days — the 


birthday  of  our  Lord.  Many  things  were 
passing  through  my  mind.  I  thought  of  the 
eloquent  sermon  heard  at  church  in  the 
morning,  "  lifting  my  nature  up  to  a  higher, 
a  more  ethereal  level;"  the  beautiful  service, 
in  which  the  voices  of  the  white-robed  men 
and  boys  filled  the  church  with  glad  anthem 
and  Te  Deum;  the  seven  bells  of  shining 
holly  and  evergreen,  with  their  red  clap- 
pers, suspended  beside  the  chancel;  the  star 
of  Bethlehem  over  the  altar,  recalling  the 
wise  men  of  the  east. 

After  lwnch  I  had  attended  a  spectacular 
drama ;  one  of  those  delightful  plays,  well 
suited  to  Christmas  time,  with  fairies  and 
demons,  where  poetic  justice  causes  the  cur- 
tain to  fall  just  as  the  wicked  are  circum- 
vented and  the  good  are  permitted  to  "  live 
happy  ever  afterward." 

Then  came  the  substantial  dinner,  pre- 
pared by  old  black  Aunt  Em,  who  had 
"  come  up  from  old  Kaintucky  jest  ter  see 
how  de  colonel  and  all  de  rest  were  comin' 
on,  and  ter  hab  one  Christmas  wid  de  home- 
folks.  Dey's  g'wanto  hab  coon  and  sweet- 
'taters  for  dinner  to-day  down  home;  but 
bress  de  Lawd,  I'se  glad  to  be  here,  'cause 
Joshua  and  de  pickanninies  said  I  might 
come." 

At  last  I  sat  down  in  my  room  before  a 
blazing  fire,  my  mind  almost  in  a  state  of 
"  innocuous  desuetude."  Memories  of  bells, 
anthems,  fairies,  stars,  and  music  flitted 
through  my  exhausted  brain,  and  then  I 
thought  of  chemistry,  that  science  which 
strikes  terror  into  the  heart  of  every  youth 
or  maiden  who  takes  a  high-school  course, 
and  I  thought  with  regret  of  my  last  low 
mark,  obtained  for  not  knowing  which  of 
the  metals  were  positive  and  which  nega- 
tive, when,  without  any  previous  warning, 
there  appeared  in  the  grate  half  a  hundred 


PSYCHOLOGY  AND  MINERALOGY. 


337 


or  more  of  the  quaintest  little  beings  I  had 
ever  seen.  They  seemed  to  be  arguing  a 
point  with  as  much  zeal  as  do  the  United 
States  Senate  or  our  Irving  Society.  At 
last  a  little  yellow-haired  boy  said :  "  Let 
us  leave  it  to  that  mortal  sitting  there  look- 
ing at  us."  I  had  been  nodding  for  some 
time  before  this  appeal,  and  he,  supposing 
that  I  had  consented,  proceeded  to  plead 
his  cause  thus : 

"I  am  Gold.  Modern  men  sometimes 
call  my  brethren  and  I  4  yellow  boys.' 
Prehistoric  man,  as  he  left  his  record  in  the 
stone,  bronze,  and  iron  ages,  valued  me 
above  all  others.  The  Old  Testament  men- 
tions six  metals — gold,  silver,  copper,  iron, 
tin,  and  lead,  placing  me  first  on  the  list. 
I  am  called  '  noble '  because  water  does  not 
affect  me.  I  am  never  comtrton,  always 
bright,  capable  of  the  highest  polish,  and 
whether  I  come  to  man's  assistance  in  the 
form  of  the  finest  wire,  the  thinnest  leaf,  or 
the  daintiest  ornament,  I  am  always  highly 
prized.  This  is  truly  the  golden  age.  Men 
love  me  so  dearly  that  they  part  with  honor, 
their  families,  and  their  lives  for  me,  and 
now  Miss  Silver,  here,  thinks  she  equals 
me  in  rank." 

"  Oh,"  said  overgrown  Miss  Silver,  "Gold 
is  well  enough  what  there  is  of  him,  but  he 
is  insignificant  in  size  compared  with  me. 
However,  everything  he  has  said  for  him- 
self applies  equally  to  me.  The  silver  altars 
of  Italy,  the  shining  dinner  service  all  over 
Christendom  to-day,  owe  their  existence  to 
me.  I  am  of  such  importance  that  bimetal- 
lists  are  holding  a  convention  about  me 
now.  I  have  even  now  the  •  favor  of  the 
lover  of  the  6  star-eyed  goddess  of  reform.' 
I  hope  you  will  remember  how  useful  I 
have  been  as  a  mirror  in  ages  past,  and 
decide  that  I  am  the  most  important  metal." 


Then  out  stepped  a  copper-colored  youth, 
with  quite  a  gallant  air,  clad  in  an  ancient 
costume,  and  bowing  low,  said :  "  I  do  not 
plead  for  myself  alone,  but  2200  B.  C.  my 
eldest  sweetheart,  Tin,  and  I  were  bound 
in  the  firmest  union,  and  as  bronze  were 
made  into  statues  in  Assyria.  My  little 
friend,  Tin,  is  too  weak  to  be  useful  alone, 
but  with  me,  can  withstand  the  storms  of 
ages.  My  newer  affinity,  Zinc,  and  I  pro- 
duce brass,  a  metal  much  used  and  valued 
by  fashionable  people,  while  I  alone,  was 
much  used  in  mediaeval  times  for  ecclesi- 
astical purposes.  So,  now,  in  the  name  of 
these  two  fair  maidens,  the  Misses  Tin  and 
Zinc,  I  ask  you  to  give  a  favorable  verdict 
for  me." 

Following  this  youth  came  a  young  man 
who  impressed  me  with  his  size  and 
strength.  "  I  am  called  Iron,"  said  he. 
"  I  do  not  claim  to  be  of  such  ancient  line- 
age as  those  who  preceded  me,  but  I  do 
claim  to  be  of  more  use  to  mankind. 
Where  would  be  your  railroads,  your  steam 
engines,  or  your  gunboats,  without  me? 
None  of  my  companions  are  so  necessary 
to  man's  progress  in  this  century.  Although 
I  do  not  rely  on  '  daddyism '  as  much  as 
my  predecessors,  yet  I  am  not  wholly  ple- 
beian, as  the  Greeks  used  to  hammer  me 
into  very  great  forms  of  beauty,  and  Homer 
sung  of  me.  I  must  be  made  '  red-hot '  to 
show  my  true  metal,  and  the  ancients  had 
not  discovered  the  method  of  melting  my 
not-too-soft  heart.  Now  you,  being  a  Chi- 
cagoan,  must  admire  a  youth  who  travels 
on  his  merits,  so  I  feel  sure  of  a  favorable 
decision  for  me." 

"  Listen  to  my  tale,"  said  a  fine-looking 
boy  of  very  tenacious  frame  of  mind  (as  I 
found  out  later).  "  With  all  due  respect, 
these  fossils,  my  predecessors,  have,  liKe 


33S 


THE  BIRD'S  LAST  CHRISTMAS. 


Edward  Bellamy,  been '  looking  backward,' 
while  I  propose  to  look  forward.  My  name 
is  Aluminum.  I  am  a  little  untractable  as 
yet,  and  it  is  expensive  to  catch  me,  but  I 
will  soon  sow  my  wild  oats,  and  be  as  bid- 
able  as  any  of  them.  Bridges,  a  great  part 
of  buildings,  almost  all  of  human  conven- 
iences, will  be  made  by  my  assistance.  ,  1 
compose  about  one-twelfth  of  the  earth,  and 
when  I  am  once  in  the  traces  I  will  revolu- 
tionize your  entire  civilization  as  rapidly  as 
Brazil  changed  its  government.  I  have 
always  been  an  enigma  to  scientists,  but  I 
improve  on  acquaintance,  and  soon  will  be 
king  of  metals,  perhaps  in  time  for  the 
world's  fair,  which  will  be  held  in  Chicago, 
even  if  house-maids  do  open  the  front  doors, 
rather  than  in  a  city  where  'Buttons'  opens 
the  door  for  the  peddler's  great-grandson." 

As  he  was  speaking  these  words  his  voice 
grew  fainter,  and  he  became  dimmer  and 
dimmer,  having  a  peculiar  rosy  light,  and  as  I 
looked  again,- there  were  nothing  but  red 
coals  to  mark  the  place  where  these  inter- 
esting fairy  representatives  from  the  min- 
eral kingdom  had  stood. 


(Five  Dollar  Prize.) 
THE  BIRD'S  LAST  CHRISTMAS. 

L.  PEEISSMANN. 
Age  11  years. 

KE  Christmas  morning,  as  I  looked 
out  of  a  window,  I  saw  a  dozen  or  so 
of  the  little  snow-birds  holding  counsel  in 
their  own  language,  as  the  reader  may  sup- 
pose. All  at  once  the  talking  and  noise 
stopped,  and  the  birds  all  flew  away,  but 
pretty  soon  came  back.  Then  there  was  a 
little  more  discussing  done  and  all  the 
birds  flew  away  except  two  or  three. 


As  I  was  looking  on  I  saw  a  bird  all  alone 
sitting  in  the  corner ;  its  eyes  had  a  dull 
fllm  over  them,  and  it  was  very  cramped 
up  indeed.  Pretty  soon  some  more  snow 
birds  came  with  a  small  twig  in  their  , 
mouths.  So  they  made  the  sick  bird  take 
hold  of  it,  and  they  attempted  to  fly  away 
with  it,  but  after  many  trials,  in  which  they 
did  not  succeed,  they  at  last  got  him  on  a 
neighboring  tree.  The  birds,  proud  of  their 
success,  chirped  around  the  sick  bird  and 
hopped  to  and  fro  in  front  and  on  all  sides 
of  the  bird.  Every  day  the  birds  would 
come  to  feed  it ;  sometimes  one  bird,  and 
then  another  the  next  day ;  but  one  day 
the  birds  were  not  there  as  usual,  and  I  was 
wondering  where  they  went.  I  went  out 
to  find  out  what  had  become  of  my  old 
friends.  As  I  was  passing  by  the  tree  in 
which  the  bird  used  to  be  I  saw  that  the 
tree  was  bare  ;  but  pretty  soon  I  heard  a  lot 
of  birds  talking  high  up  in  one  of  the  old 
oak  trees. 

As  I  looked  up  I  saw  a  whole  flock  of 
birds  talking  in  their  own  language  about 
something,  and  I  think  it  was  about  the 
sick  bird ;  and  so  it  was,  for  in  a  few  mo- 
ments the  whole  flock  was  flying  to  a  dead 
tree,  and  I,  following  them,  found  them 
looking  around,  but  as  I  turned  to  go  into 
the  house  I  saw  a  bird's  head  peek  out  of 
an  old  woodpecker's  nest,  and  the  others 
ready  to  'carry  the  sick  bird  off,  as  it  proved 
to  be,  to  a  safer  place. 

They  did  as  before,  putting  a  twig  in  the 
poor  bird's  mouth,  and  then  they  all  flew 
off  once  more. 

Next  morning,  as  I  got  up,  I  saw  a  lot  of 
birds  in  the  same  tree  where  the  birds  had 
been  in  the  woodpecker's  nest.  In  a  little 
while  the  sun  came  out  and  it  proved  to  be 
a  nice  morning,  and  the  people  were  all 


AN  INTERESTED  LISTENER. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


THE  STOR  Y  WITIIO  UT  A  NAME. 


34* 


hurrying  by  to  market.  I  noticed  my 
familiar  friend  sitting  out  under  the  shed 
eaves,  its  head  down,  and  one  bird  feeding 
it. 

After  the  noise  was  done  in  the  old  tree 
the  birds  flew  over  to  where  the  bird  was, 
and  all  the  day  long  they  sat  there,  just  as 
people  stay  at  the  bedside  of  a  dying  friend 
who  is  getting  worse.  But  at  night  I  saw 
all  fly  away  and  some  more  come  to  act  as 
servants  of  the  bird  at  night.  One  morn- 
ing, as  I  got  up,  I  saw  a  black  object  on  the 
snow  outside,  and  as  I  looked  at  it  1  recog- 
nized it  as  my  old  friend,  the  sick  bird. 


(Ten  Dollar  Prize.) 

THE  STORY  WITHOUT  A  NAME. 
  » 

CHARLEY  GREY. 
Age  13  years. 

NE  day  before  Christmas  our  pompous 
old  turkey  was  strutting  about  the  barn- 
yard. "You  had  better  strut  while  you 
can,"  said  Tom,  "for  to-morrow  by  this 
time  you  won't  be  in  strutting  trim,  for  we 
are  going  to  have  you  for  our  dinner." 

This  turkey,  the  king  of  the  barnyard, 
never  went  into  the  hen-house  with  the 
chickens,  but  always  flew  to  the  topmost 
branch  of  a  large  oak  tree. 

This  turkey,  the  king  of  the  barnyard,  in 
the  morning.  When  we  went  to  bed  Tom 
looked  out  of  the  window,  and  said  the  mud 
and  snow  did  not  drive  that  old  fool  turkey 
off  his  perch.  But  when  we  got  up  the 
next  morning  no  turkey  was  to  be  found. 
We  looked  high  and  low;  under  the  barn, 
in  the  cow-shed,  and  everywhere  we  could 
think.  Tom  went  to  the  tree  and  looked 
around.  There  was  a  rail  fence  under  the 
tree.    He  jumped  over  this,  and  here  he 


found  tracks  and  feathers.  He  followed 
these  tracks,  which  sometimes  led  under 
trees,  where  they  were  plainly  seen,  as  the 
snow  could  not  cover  them.  These  track* 
led  to  a  neighbor  called  Rolins,  where  he 
found  Mrs.  Rolins  picking  turkey  for  their 
dinner. 

He  came  home  and  told  father  what  h& 
had  seen,  expecting  that  he  would  go  over 
and  demand  our  turkey,  but  he  said  :  "  It 
may  not  be  our  turkey."  "  Yes,  it  is,"  said 
Tom;  "  I  would  know  him  if  there  wasn't  a 
feather  on  him.  Yes,  I  would  know  him  if 
he  were  cooked." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  said  mother,  "  we 
will  have  chicken  for  dinner."  Who  wants 
chicken  when  a  fellow  has  lain  awake  half 
the  night  thinking  how  good  turkey  would 
taste  ?    But  we  had  chicken  for  dinner. 

That  afternoon  Mr.  Hoi  ins  came  over  to 
see  if  he  could  borrow  enough  coffee,  tea^ 
and  sugar  till  he  could  get  some.  Father 
said  "  Yes,"  and  while  mother  was  getting 
it  he  said  :  u  Yesterday  I  went  over  and  saC 
up  with  my  sick  brother  until  3  o'clock 
this  morning,  and  then  he  made  me  take 
home  one  of  his  big,  fat  turkeys  for  our  din- 
ner. When  I  got  along  here  it  was  awful 
cold,  so  I  just  cut  across  through  your  barn- 
yard and  the  grove." 

The  next  day  father,  Turn  and  I  were  go- 
ing to  the  city,  so  we  went  to  bed  early.  It 
was  hardly  daylight  when  Tom  jumped  out 
of  bed  and  said  :  "  I  wonder  what  kind  of 
a  day  it  is  going  to  be  ?  " 

So  he  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.  Suddenly,  he  said :  "  Bert,  come 
here."  I  looked  out,  and  the  first  tiling 
that  I  saw  was  the  turkey  sitting  on  his 
usual  perch.  W7e  hurriedly  dressed  our- 
selves, and  went  down  and  told  father,  and 
he  said  :    "  Yes,  after  you  boys  had  gone 


342 


LITTLE  LUIGrS  CHRISTMAS. 


to  bed,  I  took  the  lamp  and  went  up  into 
the  attic  to  get  the  buffalo  robes  for  our 
trip,  and  the  first  thing  that  I  saw  was  the 
turkey  sitting  on  an  empty  barrel.  It 
stormed  hard  during  the  night,  and  he,  like 
a  wise  old  turkey,  thought  it  was  the  best 
place  to  go  to  get  out  of  the  storm." 

There  was  a  barrel  of  oats  and  a  barrel  of 
seed-corn  there ;  thus  he  had  escaped  Christ- 
mas. 

But  he  went  into  the  oven  on  New 
Year's  Day. 

Christmas  is  the  most  glorious  time  of  the 
year,  and  we  celebrate  it  because  it  is  the 
day  on  which  Christ  was  born,  and  the  eve 
on  which  Santa  Claus  comes  down  the 
chimney  with  his  pack  of  toys  and  fills  our 
stockings  with  candy,  nuts,  and  fruits,  and 
lays  on  the  floor  or  chair  near  our  stockings, 
books,  sleds,  games,  pictures,  foot-balls,  to- 
boggans, skates,  and  other  things  to  make 
us  happy. 

And  when  we  get  up  Christmas  morn- 
ing and  find  all  these  things,  how  happy  we 
are,  and  what  sport  we  have  trying  our  new 
skates,  sleds,  games,  and  reading  our  books. 

We  are  glad  when  dinner  is  ready  to  have 
papa  heap  up  our  plates  with  turkey,  pota- 
toes, and  other  good  things.  How  fast  we 
eat  then  and  pass  up  our  plates  for  more, 
after  which  comes  puddings,  nuts,  and  con- 
fectionery. 

In  the  evening  we  sometimes  have  parties 
and  play  games, — "blind-man's  buff,"  "pus- 
sie  wants  a  corner/'  till  we  get  tired  play- 
ing games.  Then  we  tell  stories; — how  the 
star  guided  the  three  wise  men  to  where 
Christ  was;  about  their  giving  him  presents 
of  money;  how  he  went  about  preaching 
the  gospel;  how  he  went  away  in  the  night 
to  a  mountain  to  pray;  how  he  cured  the 


sick  and  raised  the  dead;  how  he  was  cruci- 
fied, buried,  and  rose  again. 

Then  in  comes  mamma,  and  says  :  "  It  is 
time  for  little  folks  to  go  to  bed,"  so  off  we 
go  and  dream  till  mamma  thinks  we  are 
surely  sick,  and  sends  for  the  doctor,  all 
because  we  ate  too  much  plum  pudding. 


(Twenty  Dollar  Prize.) 
LITTLE  LUIGI'S  CHEISTMAS. 

ANNE  LOUISE  WANGEMEN. 
Aged  16  years. 

OWARD  4  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  on 
the  day  before  Christmas,  when  that 
dreaded,  sharp  north  wind,  called  by  the 
inhabitants  "la  bise,"  was  blowing  fast, 
the  hero  of  our  story,  little  Luigi,  entered 
the  beautiful  city  of  Geneva,  in  Switzer- 
land. 

He  was  a  little  Savoyard,  about  10  years 
of  age,  who  had  secretly  left  his  mountain 
home  in  Savoy.  Indeed,  it  was  quite  a 
disconsolate  looking  place,  and  the  people 
so  poor  that  they  emigrate  to  the  large 
cities  of  France,  or  to  other  countries,  as 
soon  as  they  have  the  necessary  means  to 
do  so. 

Luigi's  parents  had  both  died  while  he 
was  still  an  infant,  and  the  only  one  left  to 
love  and  take  care  of  him  was  an  aged  and 
infirm  grandmother,  of  whom  he  in  turn 
thought  a  good  deal.  But  Luigi  was  one 
of  the  hasty,  impulsive  kind  of  boys,  who 
act  upon  first  thought. 

He  used  to  like  to  linger  about  the 
neighboring  peasants'  houses,  and  listen  to 
what  the  old  men  related  about  former 
rebellions  and  wars,  and  how  in  the  olden 
times  their  fathers  had  gone  under  the 
leadership  of  the  duke  of  Sa  voy  to  besiege 


LITTLE  L  U GI 


Geneva,  and  how  disastrously  they  were  de- 
feated. Little  Luigi's  eyes  would  then  begin 
to  sparkle,  his  whole  countenance  grow 
radiant  with  wondsr,  and  with  every  night 
that  they  gathered  around  the  hearth-fire 
the  desire  to  go  to  Geneva  and  see  where 
those  wonderful  exploits  were  performed 
grew  more  and  more  intense  in  him.  He 
would  come  home  and  tell  his  old  grand- 
mother about  what  he  had  heard,  and  many 
a  night  did  he  lie  restless  on  his  scanty 
couch,  not  able  to  go  to  sleep,  fancying  all 
sorts  of  pictures  by  the  aid  of  his  lively 
imagination. 

In  one  of  these  nights  he  firmly  resolved 
to  get  to  Geneva,  a  few  miles  off,  in  some 
way  or  another.  At  once  a  brilliant  thought 
struck  him !  He  remembered  that  old 
Pierre  had  said  that  on  the  following  day 
he  would  drive  down  to  a  place  about  mid- 
way between  his  native  village  and  Geneva, 
to  haul  up  some  lumber  for  the  peasants, 
and  with  him  Luigi  determined  to  go.  He 
knew  that  Pierre  would  not  refuse  him  the 
ride,  and  nothing  else  could  hinder  him 
from  going,  not  even  his  attachment  for  his 
grandmother. 

Thus  he  started  out  with  Pierre,  having 
revealed  his  plan  to  no  one,  and  when  they 
had  arrived  at  their  destination  Pierre 
made  halt,  while  Luigi  said  he  would  take 
a  stroll  about  the  village. 

But  instead,  he  stole  out  to  the  country 
road,  and  had  walked  for  about  two  hours 
when  he  met  a  countryman  driving  his  cart 
in  the  direction  of  the  city.  He  accosted 
him,  begging  to  be  taken  along,  which  the 
kind-hearted  man  did  readily. 

At  length  they  arrived  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  city  of  Geneva,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
as  was  stated  above.  Luigi  thanked  the 
peasant,  alighted,  and,  almost  worn  out 


'\Sf  CHRISTMAS.  343 


with  fatigue  and  hunger,  but  heeding  it 
not,  clad  in  scanty  clothes,  while  the  "bise" 
was  blowing  violently,  set  forth  into  the 
city,  with  eager  eyes,  to  see  his  dream  real- 
ized. He  fancied  everybody  he  met  dressed 
in  the  old  costumes  of  the  "  times  of  yore." 
After  he  had  walked  along  the  borders  of 
the  beautiful  blue  Lake  Leman,where  mostly 
modern  buildings,  hotels,  and  the  like  had 
been  erected,  having  passed  back  and  forth 
over  one  of  the  many  bridges  which  cross 
the  Rhine  at  its  entrance  into  the  city,  he 
approached  the  old  part  of  the  town  and 
went  into  one  of  its  narrow,  winding  streets, 
bordered  on  both  sides  by  high,  old-fash- 
ioned, quaint-looking  houses,  and  a  gutter 
running  through  the  middle  of  it.  He  con- 
tinued ascending  the  street,  until  at  the  top 
of  the  hill  he  came  to  the  renowned,  vener- 
able cathedral  of  St.  Pierre,  where  the  fam. 
ous  Calvin,  in  that  great  period  of  reforma- 
tion, upheld  and  stood  by  the  teachings  of 
the  Protestant  religion.  Luigi  was  aston- 
ished at  the  imposing  sight  of  this  cath- 
edral, for  never  before  had  he  seen  so 
immense  a  structure.  The  "bise"  had 
brought  a  light  snow,  thus  making  the 
cathedral  and  its  high  square  towers  look 
all  the  more  beautiful  and  picturesque  in  its 
white  garment. 

On  the  large  square  surrounding  the  cath- 
edral, the  windows  of  the  houses  betrayed 
their  occupants  busily  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  their  preparations  for  the  glori- 
ous Christmas  day,  and  reflected  pretty 
Christmas  trees,  adorned  with  tapers  and 
sweet-meats,  as  well  as  joyful  children's 
faces. 

But  Luigi's  attention  was  wholly  fixed 
on  the  awe-inspiring  structure  before  him, 
and  he  was  bound  to  investigate  it  all,  even 
climb  to  the  top  of  the  belfry-tower.  He 


344 


LITTLE  LUIGI' S  CHRISTMAS. 


approached  the  main  entrance,  but,  to  his 
dismay,  it  was  locked ;  tears  started  into 
his  eyes  at  this  first  disappointment — should 
all  his  hopes  be  dashed  to  pieces  ? 

No !  he  would  not  give  up.  He  walked 
around  to  the  other  side,  and  found  a  little 
door  open ;  and,  lo !  when  he  opened  it, 
there  sat  an  old  man  fast  asleep ! 

With  trembling  limbs,  Luigi  went  by 
him  as  softly  as  possible,  so  that  he  might 
not  awaken  him,  and  glided  through  the 
narrow  passage  to  another  door;  and,  on 
opening  it,  what  a  sight  met  his  eyes ! 
Innumerable,  enormous  granite  pillars,  im- 
posing statues  on  tombs  of  old  saints,  the 
enormous  organ  at  one  end,  and  numerous 
altars  and  sacred  pictures  on  all  sides. 
Luigi  hardly  dared  move,  lest  he  might  dis- 
turb the  awful  silence,  which  reigned 
throughout.  But  he  finally  yielded  to  that 
restless  something  which  seemed  to  drive 
him  on  and  on.  He  crept  slowly  along  the 
side  of  the  wall,  and  arrived  at  a  little 
apartment,  which,  to  his  great  joy,  proved 
a  winding  staircase,  leading  up  to  the  belfry 
in  the  great  square  tower. 

Meanwhile  it  had  grown  dark,  and  feel- 
ing his  way,  he  at  length  reached  the  top. 
What  a  view  he  had  here  !  It  almost  over- 
whelmed him,  who,  only  a  child  in  body, 
was  intellectually  much  farther  advanced. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  still,  not  know- 
ing where  to  look  first ;  then  he  crouched 
down  in  one  corner,  for  it  was  bitterly  cold. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  he  could  see  clear, 
placid  Leman  ;  over  yonder  the  new  part  of 
the  city,  and  right  behind  the  cathedral  the 
remains  of  high  city  walls,  the  very  ones  - 
on  which  the  Savoyards,  his  countrymen, 
were  defeated.  He  fancied  them  running 
about,  struggling  for  life,  falling  down  that 
great  height ;  in  his  imagination  he  heard 


the  cry  of  the  victors,  and  crouched  down 
lower  and  lower  into  his  corner,  as  if  he 
were  one  of  the  vanquished. 

Oh,  that  Christmas  night !  Poor  Luigi 
thought  of  his  grandmother,  and  what 
agony  she  was  suffering  at  not  seeing  him 
come  back. 

But  how  could  he  return  now  ?  It  was 
impossible !  He  was  ^lmost  dead  with 
fatigue,  nearly  frozen  and  starved.  And 
oh !  how  lovely  it  was  to  sit  there,  high 
above  the  abodes  of  men,  viewing  those 
wonderfully  picturesque  sights  all  around 
"with  calm  delight !  " 

But  hark !  what  was  that  \  Luigi  sunk 
back  stunned,  stupefied,  almost  deaf;  the 
great  bell  right  near  him  was  ringing  out 
the  merry  Christmas  chimes,  for  it  had 
just  struck  twelve  and  the  glorious  day  had 
begun ! 

It  seemed  to  Luigi  as  if  he  were  being 
borne  u^  to  the  sky,  and  all  the  while  the 
chimes  were  announcing  his  arrival  to  the 
angels,  that  they  might  open  to  him  the 
gates  of  heaven.  Yes  poor  Luigi,  frozen 
and  starved,  had  breathed  his  last !  To 
many  a  person  in  the  city  may  the  chimes 
have  seemed  more  melodious  than  ever  be- 
fore, and  they  may  have  awakened  many  a 
soul  to  pensive  reverie  and  to  gratitude 
for  the  Savior,  whose  birthday  the  bells 
heralded. 

But  to  none  may  it  have  occurred  that 
those  same  Christmas  chimes  were  also  the 
death-knell  to  a  pure  little  soul,  which  had 
passed  away  beside  the  very  bell,  after  only 
a  day  of  great  nervous  strain  and  excite- 
ment, and  many  hours  of  fatigue  and  hun- 
ger and  cold,  having  at  last  only  reached 
his  aim  and  goal,  to  find  for  a  moment  his 
dreams  realized,  and  then  to  pass  awap 
forever  at  the  very  spot ! 


THE  CHRISTMAS  GHOST. 


345 


(Five  Dollar  Prize.) 
A  MISCHIEVOUS  CAT'S  CHRISTMAS. 

JOHNNIE  BAYBOURN. 
Age  9  years. 

E  have  a  little  cat ;  its  name  is  Kittie 
White.  She  is  a  very  mischievous 
cat,  and  always  has  her  nose  into  every- 
thing. I  told  her  yesterday  that  Santa 
Claus  would  come  down  the  chimney  to- 
night and  bring  us  all  something  nice.  I 
believe  she  understood  me  for  she  looked 
very  intelligent.  This  morning,  when  I 
awoke,  I  heard  Kittie  mewing  as  though  in 
trouble.  I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  went  to 
her  assistance.  Where  do  you  think  I 
found  her  ?  In  the  storeroom  in  a  can  of 
paint !  Kitty'  had  got  up  before  me  and 
thought  she  would  play  smart.  So  she 
went  prowling  around  to  see  what  Santa 
Claus  had  left.  I  suppose  she  thought 
if  there  was  anything  nice  she  would  get 
her  share  first.  She  thought  she  had  found 
a  nice  can  of  cream,  neatly  covered.  Kit- 
tie  thought  it  foolish  to  wait  for  some  one 
to  help  her,  when  she  could  just  as  well 
help  herself.  So,  pushing  the  cover  aside, 
Kittie  climbed  up  on  the  tdp  of  the  can  and 
stuck  her  nose  down  to  enjoy  her  feast,  but 
it  was  too  far  down  to  reach.  So  she  over- 
balanced, and  away  went  poor  Kittie  into 
the  can  of  paint.  She  tried  in  vain  to  get 
out,  and  I  don't  know  what  would  have 
become  of  her  if  I  had  not  heard  her 
"meow."  Poor  Kittie,  her  nice  coat  was 
completely  covered  with  the  nasty  paint. 
So  Kittie  had  to  go  to  the  barn,  and  spend 
Christmas  in  the  barn,  trying  to  get  the 
paint  out  of  her  fur.  If  she  had  only  wait- 
ed until  we  got  up  she  would  have  been 
treated  to  a  breakfast  of  rich  milk,  and 
could  have  spent  Christmas  around  a  warm 


stove.  I  think  little  children  might  take  a 
lesson  from  Kittie's  misfortune,  and  not 
poke  their  noses  into  what  doesn't  concern 
them,  or  they  may  sometimes  find  paint 
where  they  expect  to  find  cream. 


(Ten  Dollar  Prize.) 
THE  CHEISTMAS  GHOST. 

STELLA  SHEEFY. 
Age  13  years. 

IT  was  a  week  before  Christmas,  and  at 
£  the  Gadsden  academy  a  few  boys  were 
gathered  about  the  study  fire,  discussing 
something  eagerly. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  sturdy  Tom  Bailey, 
"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it ;  and  I'll  vol- 
unteer to  head  a  procession  of  investigation 
some  night,  and  stay  in  the  house  all  night." 

A  murmur  of  applause  ran  through  the 
company,  and  Jack  Farland  spoke  up :. 
"  All  right,  Tom,  I'm  with  you ! " 

The  house  Tom  alluded  to  was  the  talk 
of  the  village.  Some  years  before  it  had 
been  the  home  of  Jack  Farland.  After  his 
parents  died,  Jack  entered  the  academy, 
working  his  way  through,  for  he  was  poor. 

At  Christmas  time,  ever  since,  various, 
persons  had  claimed  to  have  seen  weird 
lights  in  the  empty  house,  and  some  averred 
they  had  seen  a  white  figure  roaming 
through  the  rooms.  And  now  just  at 
Christmas  time,  the  figure  was  again  seen. 

No  one  believed  it  was  a  real  ghost — oh, 
no  !  but  no  one  seemed  anxious  to  investi- 
gate. 

The  boys  planned  to  hide  in  the  bushes 
around  the  house,  until  the  lights  should 
appear. 

Any  one  watching  the  haunted  house 
very  closely  might  have  wondered  why 


346 


THE  CHRISTMAS  GHOST. 


some  of  the  academy  boys  carefully  exam- 
ined every  place  in  which  a  boy  could  se- 
crete himself. 

About  9  o'clock  "on  the  night  before 
Christmas,  when  all  through  the  house" — 
the  haunted  house —  "not  a  creature  was 
stirring,"  nine  boys  crept  stealthily  from 
Gadsden  academy  down  toward  the  haunted 
house. 

Benton  was  a  small  town,  and  boasted  no 
street  lamps ;  so  the  shutters  of  private  res- 
idences were  thrown  open  on  dark  nights 
to  cheer  and  guide  any  travelers  along  the 
road. 

-  Yery  bright  and  cheerful  the  houses 
looked.  Groups  of  happy  faces  were  gath- 
ered about  every  fireside.  In  some  houses 
the  younger  members  had  retired,  but  they 
left  a  sure  sign  of  their  expectancy — a  row 
of  stockings  by  the  chimney. 

The  air  was  keen  and  frosty  and  the  snow 
crunched  under  their  feet.  Dreary  and 
bleak  the  haunted  house  now  loomed  up 
before  them.  It  was  a  large,  ancient  build- 
ing, whose  gables  afforded  ample  shelter 
for  bats  and  owls. 

Around  the  house  it  was  gloomy  and 
dark  enough  to  dampen  the  ardor  of  any 
one  not  quite  so  interested  as  our  boys. 
But  they  crouched  down  under  the  bushes, 
and  waited.  The  clock  struck  eleven.  A 
footstep  was  heard  on  the  path.  Nearer, 
nearer  it  came.  It  was  only  a  tired  laborer 
returning  home . 

All  was  still.  The  village  clock  struck 
twelve.  Clear  and  loud  it  sounded  on  the 
frosty  air.    Still  no  light ! 

Yery  still,  so  stealthily  that  the  boys  did 
not  hear  it  until  it  was  half-way  up  the 
pathway,  a  dark  form  glided  to  the  door- 
way.   Yery,  v-e-r-y  quietly  the  boys  fol- 


lowed it.  In  the  large  hall  they  huddled 
together. 

In  a  few  moments  a  white  form  is  seen 
gliding  down  the  entry.  The  boys  shud- 
der. Man  or  spirit,  it  would  be  unpleasant 
to  encounter  it. 

It  glides  into  a  room  and  waves  a  blue 
light  about.  Tom  whispered  :  "  Four  of 
you  follow  me,  and  if  I  whistle,  the  rest 
come." 

The  specter  moves  slowly  down  the  long 
hall.  Still  as  mice,  led  by  Tom,  four  boys 
follow  it  through  corridor  after  corridor. 
At  last  it  vanishes  behind  a  curtain.  The 
boys  push  aside  the  curtain,  and  behold  the 
"ghost." 

At  a  signal  from  Tom,  they  spring  upon 
it.    Flesh  and  blood.    No  ghost  about  it. 

Tom  gives  a  clear,  loud  whistle,  and  in  a 
moment  the  boys  are  all  there.  The 
"ghost"  struggles  madly,  but  nine  boys  are 
a  match  for  him.  They  push  him  into  a 
closet  and,  with  a  shout  of  triumph,  slip 
the  bolt  across  the  door. 

In  the  struggle  Tom  noticed  a  small 
piece  of  paper  fall  to  the  floor.  He  now 
picked  it  up  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 

About  1:30,  Tom  shouted.  "Why  it's 
Christmas,  boys  ! " 

"Merry  Christmas,  your  ghostship ! " 
shouted  Ned  through  the  keyhole. 

A  growl  was  the  only  reply  deigned. 

The  boys  remained  in  the  room  all  night, 
but  at  daybreak  the  constable  of  Benton 
was  aroused  from  his  peaceful  slumbers  by 
a  sharp  peal  of  the  door-bell. 

Mr.  Rogers  was  very  sleepy  and  cross 
when  he  went  down  stairs,  but  he  was  wide 
awake  indeed  two  minutes  after,  when  he 
heard  that  the  ghost  of  the  haunted  house 
was  captured. 


A  CHRISTMAS  DREAM. 


347 


He  thought  it  best  to  arouse  some  of  the 
gentlemen  to  accompany  him  to  the  house, 

The  early  risers  of  Benton  were  consid- 
erably surprised  that  morning  to  see  a 
company  of  the  most  respectable  citizens 
walking  the  streets  at  that  early  hour  with 
the  constable. 

The  prisoner  gave  himself  up  without 
any  resistance,  and  it  was  not  until  an  hour 
later,  when  his  "ghostship"  was  -safely 
lodged  in  the  lock-up,  that  Tom  remem- 
bered the  scrap  of  paper  he  had  found. 

He  now  examined  it  carefully.  He  made 
out  "under  cellar,  Farland,  notes,  box, 
this,"  and  "  Jack." 

This  tells  the  story.  My  reader  will 
have  \magined  that  this  led  to  an  investi- 
gation of  the  cellar.    You  are  right. 

The  rest  is  easily  told.  A  small  box  con- 
taining bank  notes  and  bonds  was  found  in 
the  cellar.  Not  a  fortune,  by  any  means, 
but  enough  to  keep  J ack  very  comfortably. 
It  certainly  was  a  precious  Christmas  pres. 
ent  to  Jack. 

And  the  ghost?  Oh!  when  he  found 
himself  safely  lodged  in  jail  he  confessed 
that  he  had  been  trying  to  find  the  money, 
and  had  adopted  the  ruse  to  accomplish  his 
plans. 

Every  one  rejoiced  over  Jack's  good  for- 
tune, and  joined  with  him  in  pronouncing 
the  prisoner  a  very  accommodating  "  Christ- 
mas ghost." 


(Ten  Dollar  Prize.) 
A  CHRISTMAS  DREAM. 

IDA  FISCHEE. 

Aged  13  years  and  8  months. 

LL  alone  by  the  kitchen  fireside  sat 
little  Becky,  for  every  one  else  had 
gone  away  to  enjoy  Christmas,  and  left  her 


to  take  care  of  the  house.  Nobody  had 
thought  to  give  her  any  presents,  or  some 
little  token,  even  though  she  be  rich  or 
poor.  She  was  only  twelve  years  old,  and 
was  bound  to  work  for  the  farmer's  wife. 
She  had  no  father  or  mother  or  friends  or 
home  but  this,  and  as  she  sat  there  her  little 
heart  ached  to  know  if  anybody  ever  cared 
for  her, 

Becky  was  a  quiet  child,  with  a  thin  face 
and  wise-looking  eyes.  She  worked  day 
after  day  so  patiently  and  silently  that  no 
one  ever  thought  what  queer  things  filled 
her  mind. 

To-night  she  was  wishing  that  there  were 
fairies  in  the  world,  who  would  come  down 
the  chimney  and  give  her  quantities  of 
pretty  things  as  they  did  in  the  beautiful 
fairy  stories  she  had  read. 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  as  poor  and  lonely  as 
Cinderella,  and  need  somebody  kind  to 
help  me,"  said  Becky  to  herself,  as  she  sat 
on  the  little  stool  staring  at  the  fire,  which 
didn't  burn  very  well,  for  she  felt  too  much 
out  of  sorts  to  care  whether  things  looked 
cheerful  or  not. 

Some  people  believe  that  all  dumb  things 
can  speak  for  one  hour  on  Christmas  eve. 
This  little  girl  knew  nothing  of  this  story, 
and  nobody  knows  whether  she  fell  asleep 
and  dreamed  it.  But  this  is  really  true, 
when  she  compared  herself  with  Cinderella 
she  heard  a  small  voice  say  that  if  she 
wanted  some  experience  she  could  give  her 
some,  for  she  had  had  much  experience  in 
this  trying  world. 

"  Was  it  you  that  spoke  ? "  said  Becky  at 
last.  "  Of  course  I  did.  If  you  wish  a 
godmother,  here  I  am."  "Well,  ma'am, 
I'm  ready  to  listen,"  said  Becky.  "What 
do  you  want  first  % "  said  the  godmother. 
"  To  be  loved  by  everybody,"  replied  Becky. 


THE  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  HELPERS, 

 5  j  


34S 


"  Excellent,"  said  the  cat.  "  I  am  much 
pleased  with  that  answer ;  it's  very  sensi- 
ble ;  to  make  people  love  you  by  loving 
them."  "  I  don't  know  how,"  sighed  Becky. 
"  Neither  did  I  in  the  beginning,"  returned 
puss.  "When  I  first  came  here,  a  shy 
young  kitten,  I  thought  only  of  keeping  out 
of  everybody's  way,  for  I  was  afraid  of 
every  one.  I  hid  under  the  barn,  and  only 
came  out  when  no  one  was  near.  I  wasn't 
happy  at  all." 

"  Do  you  think  if  I  try  not  to  be  afraid, 
but  to  show  that  I  want  to  be  affectionate, 
the  people  will  let  me,  and  will  like  it  % 99 
"  Very  sure  ;  I  heard  the  mistress  say  you 
were  a  good,  handy  little  thing.  Do  as  I 
did,  and  you  will  find  there  is  plenty  of  love 
in  the  world."  "  I  will.  Thank  you,  dear 
old  puss,  for  your  advice." 

Puss  came  to  rub  her  soft  cheek  against 
Becky's  hand,  and  then  settled  herself  in  a 
cozy  bunch  in  Becky's  lap.  The  fire  was 
now  blazing  brightly  in  the  room,  and 
Becky  was  still  dreaming.  "  How  cheer- 
ful that  is  ;  if  I  could  only  have  a  second 
wish  I'd  wish  to  be  as  cheerful  as  the  fire." 
"  Have  your  wish  if  you  choose,  but  you 
must  work  for  it  as  I  do,"  and  the  kettle 
sung  this  following  song  : 

"  I'm  an  old  black  kettle, 
With  a  very  crooked  nose, 

But  I  can't  help  being  gay 
When  the  merry  fire  glows." 

At  1  o'clock,  as  the  family  went  jingling 
home  in  the  big  sleigh  from  the  Christmas 
party,  the  farmer's  wife  remarked  that  she 
hadn't  a  decent  dress  for  her.  "  I've  got 
some  popcorn  and  a  bouncing  big  apple  for 
her,"  said  Billy,  the  red-faced  lad  perched 
up  by  his  father  playing  driver. 

"  And  I'll  give  her  one  of  my  dolls.  She 


said  she  never  had  one,  and  Aunt  Sally 
offered  to  give  the  mittens  she  had  knit.'' 

When  they  came  home  they  found  poor 
Becky  lying  on  the  bare  floor,  her  head 
pillowed  on  the  stool,  and  Tabby  in  her 
arms.  And  each  one  laid  a  present  beside 
Becky,  but  the  mother  gave  the  best  gift  of 
all,  for  she  stooped  and  kissed  her.  This 
wakened  the  child  at  once,  and  looking 
about  her  with  astonished  eyes,  she  clapped 
her  hands  and  cried  :  "  My  dream's  come 
true  !    Oh,  my  dream's  come  true !  " 

You  see,  kindness  is  always  rewarded, 
and  this  poor  little  girl  won  the  hearts  of 
her  friends  by  loving  them. 


(Five  Doi^ae  Prize.) 
THE   MERRY  CHRISTMAS  HELPERS. 

FANNIE  LEDERER. 
Age  10  years  and  8  months. 

WF  was  the  day  before  Christmas  when 
f  three  little  boys  made  up  their  minds  to 
do  something  for  Christmas. 

Then  one  said,  "  Let  us  fix  the  Christmas 
tree,"  and  the  other  said,  "  No,  we  will  go 
down  the  hill  and  have  some  fun."  "  No," 
said  the  third,  "  we  will  be  three  little  Santa 
Clauses  going  from  one  house  to  another. 
Won't  that  do  V9 

"  Oh,  yes,"  they  all  cried. 

"  Well,  then,  we  will  get  ready." 

"  I  have  25  cents,"  said  the  first. 

"I  have  28,"  said  the  second. 

"  And  I  have  $1,"  said  the  last. 

"  Now,  let  us  see  how  much  will  that  be — - 
25  cents,  28  cents,  and  $1  equals  $1.53. 
Oh,  that  will  do,  I  hope." 

"  Where  will  we  go  all,  and  how  will  we 
dress  ?" 

"  We  must  make  a  list  out  first,"  said  one 
of  them. 


THE  1NFL  UEJSTCE  OF 


GHR ISTMA S  STORIES, 


349 


"  We  will  dress  up  like  Santa  Claus  with 
a  long  beard  and  a  sack  full  of  toys.  And 
we  will  go  in  all  the  houses  around  our 
street." 

Christmas  eve  came  at  last.  They  bought 
all  they  wished,  and  very  much  too. 

But  they  wished  they  could  have  got  it 
themselves. 

They  came  into  the  houses  at  midnight, 
and  filled  children's  stockings  with  toys, 
candy  and  nuts. 

And  some  mothers  were  surprised,  them- 
selves, and  believed  that  there  was  a  Santa 
Claus  at  last. 

Then  they  peeped  into  their  own  mother's 
room,  and  fixed  the  Christmas  tree  up  so 
nice  that  when  their  mothers  awoke  they 
asked  their  little  boys  who  had  fixed  the 
Christmas  tree  so  beautifully.  * 

But  they  gave  no  answers  and  went  out 
to  play. 

When  next  evening  came  they  invited 
all  their  friends  to  see  their  beautiful  Christ- 
mas tree.  They  all  came  and  had  a  very 
nice  time. 

Now  Christmas  was  over,  and  they  kept 
their  Christmas  tree  very  long. 

Then  next  Christmas  came,  and  the  little 
boys  told  their  mothers  that  they  were  the 
little  Christmas  helpers. 

And  their  mothers  were  much  surprised 
indeed.  This  Christmas  they  had  a  very 
nice  time  also. 

It  happened  one  day  while  one  of  the 
boys  was  walking  along  the  streets  he  saw 
the  king  talking  with  a  man,  and  in  a  beau- 
tiful buggy  sat  a  princess, 

No  sooner  had  he  come  up  to  the  buggy, 
when  the  horse  gave  a  jump,  and  away  he 
ran  at  full  speed.  Then  the  boy  ran  around 
the  corner  to  catch  the  horse. 

He  saw  it   running  toward  him,  and 


caught  the  horse,  and  brought  it  to  the  king, 
whose  mind  it  was  to  have  the  youth  marry 
the  princess. 

He  was  about  28  years  old,  and  she  was 
about  24  years  old. 

They  were  soon  married,  and  when  the 
king  died,  he,  whose  name  is  Arthur,  was 
soon  the  king. 

His  dear  mother  was  so  glad  that  she 
kissed  him  again  and  again. 

He  grew  up  to  a  very  kind,  honest  man. 

Every  one  loved  him  and  respected  him. 
He  died  at  the  age  of  93  years. 

All  the  country  mourned  for  him.  And 
they  had  a  grand  stone  placed  on  his  grave. 


(Five  Dollar  Prize.) 

THE  INFLUENCE  OF  CHRISTMAS  STO- 
RIES ON  A  DEAF  AND  DUMB  GIRL. 

AGGIE  WEGENER. 
Age  9  years  and  3  months. 

m  HRISTMAS  gift !  Christinas  gift ! 
V§/  This  was  the  general  cry  of  all 
children  on  Christmas  day.  I  am  not  an 
exception,  and  wish  as  much  as  other  chil- 
dren that  Santa  Claus  will  remember  me.  I 
like  also  dolls,  candy,  cake,  and  other  nice 
things,  but  above  all.  I  would  like  to  be  a 
fine  writer,  able  to  write  some  nice  Christ- 
mas stories.  I  had  not  the  courage  to  do 
so  before,  but  now  I  will  try. 

A  little  deaf  and  dumb  girl  after  reading 
one  of  Esop's  fables,  which  was  about  the 
dinner  of  tongues,  at  first  when  she  had  read 
only  a  part,  was  very  unhappy  when  she 
found  out  that  the  tongue  was  the  best  of 
all  things,  but  when  she  came  to  the  end 
and  learned  that  it  was  also  the  worst  she 
did  not  lose  her  courage  so  quickly. 

She  thought  to  herself :    I  have  yet  the 


CONFOUND 


THAT  BOY. 


use  of  my  eyes,  hands  and  brain  ;  I  will  try 
to  improve  my  writing.  Then  she  began 
'to  write  Christmas  stories.  The  people,  on 
account  of  her  unfortunate  condition, 
patronized  her  more  than  other  writers. 
This  encouraged  her  very  much.  Now,  she 
wrote  many  little  books  containing  Christ- 
mas stories.  From  the  sale  of  these  books 
she  became  quite  wealthy,  and  she  put  it  to 
a  good  use.  She  perfected  her  education 
in  a  deaf  and  dumb  asylum,  an&  succeeded 
to  obtain  a  teacher's  certificate  for  the 
instruction  of  deaf  and  dumb.  In  her  new 
situation  she  took  great  interest  in  her 
pupils,  and  as  her  good  success  had  origi- 
nated from  the  reading  of  the  Christmas  sto- 
ries she  presented  each  Christmas  to  her 
pupils  a  collection  of  stories. 

Having  a  double  object  in  view,  she  de- 
sired to  reward  her  pupils  for  good  conduct 
and  scholarship ;  secondly  to  become  able 
composers,  as  this  is  mostly  needed  for  deaf 
and  dumb  children,  for  they  need  more  than 
other  people  to  express  their  wishes  in 
writing. 

She  succeeded  in  her  undertaking  beyond 
her  hopes. 

Her  pupils  learned  to  write  and  compose 
well.  Her  school  was  considered  the  best 
in  the  country,  and  her  scholars  made  better 
progress  than  in  many  other  older  schools. 

Next  Christmas  they  all  wrote  some  sto- 
ries for  their  brothers  and  sisters  at  home, 
who  also  liked  them  very  much.  Indeed 
the  stories  created  quite  an  excitement. 
Old  folks  and  children  read  them  so  often 
that  they  knew  them  by  heart.  Every  child 
desired  to  write  similar  stories,  and  the 
parents  complying  with  their  wishes,  pro- 
vided the  means  for  a  better  education  than 
had  ever  been  offered  before. 

In  several  towns  enough  money  was  col- 


lected to  build  new  school-houses.  These 
new  schools  in  the  course  of  time  became 
perfection  in  every  respect,  and  all  were 
connected  with  a  class  for  the  deaf  and  dumb. 
They  are  called  Christmas  schools,  and 
the  pupils  of  them  spend  their  happiest 
time  on  Christmas  eve,  and  their  joyful 
voices  mingle  with  the  songs  of  angels  pro- 
claiming the  birth  of  Christ. 


(Five  Dollar  Peize.) 

A  LUCKY  CHRISTMAS. 


ALICE  E.  MacKAY. 
Age  10  years  and  8  months. 

Y  name  is  Tom.  I  was  born  in  an  old 
broken  market  basket  two  or  three 
years  ago  this  Christmas.  I  had  two  or 
three  brothers  and  sisters,  but  they  all  died. 
My  mother  was  a  pretty  black  and  yellow 
cat,  and  was  much  petted  by  her  mistress.  * 
My  coat  is  so  black  that  they  sometimes 
call  me  Black  Tom.  My  mother  was  a  good 
cat,  for  she  used  to  catch  lots  of  mice,  and 
then  gave  them  to  me.  I  was  very  naughty 
when  I  was  a  kitten,  for  I  didn't  like  to 
hunt  them,  but  I  did  like  birds.  My  mis- 
tress had  a  pretty  bird,  and  one  day  I  caught 
it  and  killed  it.  They  didn't  like  me  any 
after  that  until  last  Christmas.  My  mis- 
tress made  a  big  pudding  for  the  boys  and 
girls  to  eat  on  Christmas  day.  She  put  it 
in  a  storeroom,  where  she  had  lots  of  other 
goodies.  In  the  night  time  Mrs.  Mouse 
came  and  nibbled  a  great  hole  in  the  side  of 
it.  Next  day  my  mistress  went  for  the 
pudding  to  set  it  on  the  table.  "When  she 
saw  the  big  hole  in  the  pudding  she  was  very- 
angry,  and  went  and  called  my  mother. 
But  my  mother  had  gone  away  and  left  me 
home  alone,  so  my  mistress  caught  me  up 


A  CHRISTMAS  WITH  THE  FAIRIES. 


351 


and  put  me'  into  the  storeroom.  My  mis- 
tress pulled  the  boxes  away  from  the  corner 
where  she  thought  Mrs.  Mouse  had  her 
home.  I  sat  down  by  the  door  watching 
her.  Just  as  she  pulled  the  last  box  away 
the  mouse  ran  out.  I  sprang  after  her,  and 
caught  her  just  as  she  was  going  in  her 
hole.  My  mistress  said  I  was  a  good  cat 
and  petted  me.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that 
Christmas  pudding  and  the  mouse  I 
wouldn't  have  had  the  nice  home  that  I 
have  now. 


(Five  Dollar  Prize.) 
A  CHKISTMAS  WITH  THE  FAIRIES. 

ELENOR  DOYLE. 
Age  10  years. 

ITTLE  Genie  was  standing*  out  in  the 
snow  upon  a  cold  Christmas  eve. 
She  had  nowhere  to  go,  as  her  bad  father  had 
put  her  out  of  the  house  and  told  her  to  go 
and  find  a  home  for  herself. 

When  her  mother  was  living  her  father 
could  not  treat  her  bad,  and  they  had  been 
in  comfortable  means.  But  after  her 
mother's  death  her  father  had  taken  to 
drinking,  and  used  to  send  her  out  to  sell 
flowers  in  summer  and  matches  in  winter. 

If  she  did  not  sell  enough  to  buy  him  a 
pitcher  of  beer,  he  would  whip  her  very 
hard. 

During  the '  last  week  she  had  not  sold 
over  two  boxes  a  day  which  brought  her 
only  3  cents.  He  had  used  her  terribly, 
but  as  she  could  sell  none  on  Christmas  eve 
he  turned  her  out  of  the  house. 

She  wandered  away,  having  nowhere  to 
go.  At  last  she  came  to  a  plain.  She  still 
wandered  on.  At  the  other  side  of  the 
plain  she  could  see  many  hills. 

When  she  reached  them  she  saw  one  that 


was  very  low.  As  she  was  tired,  she  sat 
down  upon  it  to  rest,  although  the  snow  was 
deep. 

It  was  growing  dark,  and  she  knew  not 
where  to  sleep.  She  had  never  known  such 
poverty  and  loneliness  before. 

She  concluded  to  stay  there,  as  she  could 
see  nothing  but  hills  for  miles,  around. 

She  was  just  going  to  lie  down  when 
she  saw  another  hill  about  the  same  size 
open,  and  a*beautif ul  little  lady  come  out. 

She  wore  a  diamond  crown,  silk  dress 
and  golden  wings.  "  That  must  be  the 
queen  of  the  fairies,"  she  said  to  herself. 

The  fairy  did  not  notice  her  at  first,  but 
when  Genie  stirred  she  turned  around. 

"  Why,  my  little  maiden,"  she  said, 
"what  has  brought  you  here  \ " 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  said  Genie. 

"  In  fairyland,"  answered  the  queen. 
"All  these  hills  are  fairy  houses,  and  you 
are  on  the  king's." 

"  Was  I  ?    What  will  he  say  ? » 

"Nothing,  nothing.  But  you  have  not 
answered  my  first  question  yet." 

"I  will,"  said  Genie,  and  she  told  the 
queen  how,  because  she  could  earn  no 
money,  her  father  had  turned  her  out  of 
the  house,  and  she  had  wandered  away, 

"Poor  child!"  said  the  queen.  "But 
where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  was  just  lying  down  to  sleep  here 
when  I  saw  you.  I  know  not  where  else  to 
sleep."  * 

They  then  had  a  long  conversation,  dur- 
ing which  Genie  mentioned  Christmas. 

"What  is  that  ? "  said  the  queen. 

"  Don't  you  know  %  "  said  Genie,  in  a  sur- 
prised way.  "  Why,  it  is  a  feast  that  is  cel- 
ebrated every  25th  of  December." 

"  Then  it  comes  to-morrow? " 

"Yes,  and  this  is  Christmas  eve.    It  is 


352 


A  CHRISTMAS  WITH  THE  FAIRIES. 


customary  to  give  presents  in  honor  of  the 
birth  of  Christ.  Ah,  how  different  this 
Christmas  will  be  from  my  last  one ! 
Mamma  was  living,  and  I  received  many 
presents.  Now  mamma  is  dead  ;  I  am  far 
away  from  home,  and  shall  not  receive 
many  presents." 

"  That  is  something  new  to  us  fairies. 
We  never  heard  of  it  before,"  said  the 
queen,  not  noticing  Genie's  last  words.  "It 
is  a  nice  custom  to  give  presents.  But  it  is 
cold  and  dark  Come  into  our  house  and 
stay  until  tomorrow.  You  can't  remain 
out  here." 

Genie  thanked  the  queen  over  and  over 
again.  She  entered  the  house  rather  timid- 
ly, as  she  had  been  taught  not  to  believe  in 
fairies. 

She  thought  she  had  never  before  seen 
such  beautiful  things  as  were  in  the  fairy 
houses.  She  was  taken  through  each  one, 
shown  the  ornaments  and  curiosities  and 
treated  with  much  respect. 

She  slept  in  the  queen's  dwelling,  which 
was  the  grandest  of  all.  The  walls  and 
even  floors  were  of  gold  and  silver. 

When  she  awoke  in  the  morning  she 
found  many  presents,  among  which  there 
was  a  magnificent  doll — liner  than  any 
that  she  had  ever  seen. 

She  got  many  other  presents  that  she 
wanted  very  badly.  "  Oh  !  "  said  she,  "  I 
must  be  dreaming!"  But  she  was  not 
dreaming. 

She  had  a  lovely  breakfast,  and  spent  a 
^ery  pleasant  day. 


Christmas  evening,  after  being  laden  with 
gold,  silver,  and  presents,  she  started 
home. 

Meanwhile  her  father  had  regretted  send- 
ing his  little  girl  away.  He  was  afraid  that 
she  had  been  starved  or  frozen.  He  also 
thought  of  the  kindnesses  she  had  done  him. 
How  he  wished  her  back  ! 

When  seven  o'clock  Christmas  night  came 
and  his  daughter  did  not  return  he  was  very 
sad.  He  gave  up  all  hope  at  eight  o'clock, 
and  was  just  getting  ready  for  bed  when 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Springing 
up,  he  opened  it.    He  stood  back. 

There  was  his  daughter,  with  her  arms 
laden  with  bundles. 

She  was  trembling  all  over  for  she  was 
afraid  that  she  would  get  a  whipping  for 
coming  back.  But  what  was  her  surprise 
when  her  father  threw  his  arms  around  her 
and  kissed  her. 

She  then  told  him  of  her  a  cperience,  and 
counting  her  money,  found  she  had  $1,000 
in  gold  and  silver. 

She  had  discovered  a  way  from  the  fairies 
to  get  her  father  to  give  up  drink.  She 
told  him  of  it  and  he  said  that  he  would  try 
to  do  it  and  he  guessed  he  would  succeed 
with  her  help. 

The  next  day  he  found  work,  and  with 
Genie's  thousand  dollars  and  his  earnings 
they  got  along  very  well. 

Although  Genie  Is  now  forty  years  old 
and  has  three  children,  she  will  never  for- 
get the  Christmas  spent  with  the  fairies. 


/ 


